Deadman Canyon (9 page)

Clay said swiftly, “Give me a minute to get out of here. Then open the window and try to make that mob listen to you. Tell them I’m in here. Then when it’s safe, get away. Come to the Winged L.”

Molly caught his arm. “Clay, no! They’ll catch you. They’ll kill you!”

“It’s the only chance we have of keeping that mob away from the judge’s place until we can all get out to his ranch,” Clay told her. “In another minute they’ll run for his house. Now do as I say.”

He turned and limped down the hall. Molly cried, “Clay, be careful. Bick Damson is outside somewhere waiting to kill you.”

Clay hurried on. He was at the foot of the stairs when he heard Molly’s voice crying out above him. “Clay Belden is here! Hurry, before he gets away!”

Clay ran out the back door and leaped onto the dun.

C
LAY
rode the dun in a wide swing that avoided the center of town and brought him into the narrow lane running behind the jailhouse. For a moment he lost track of the mob but now he could hear it surging back up the street to the Cattlemen’s Bar.

The voices became muted, and Clay knew the crowd had reached the saloon. But they wouldn’t stay there long, he thought. Once they found Marnie and Pike dead and him gone, they would head for the judge’s house with renewed fury.

Clay slowed the dun as he neared the patches of yellow light spilling from cell windows. He remembered Molly’s last warning and he searched the shadows beyond the light, seeking some sign of Damson or Kemp Vanner. He kept his   .44 in his hand.

But the night was still. Clay reined the dun in at the rear door of the jail and left the saddle. He hurried into the sheriff’s office. He saw the blanket-covered mound in Bert Coniff’s cell but went on without pausing.

Roy Ponders was on his knees in the doorway, his shotgun held firmly to his shoulder. He swept the empty street with deliberate eyes, as if he hoped to find some movement to shoot at.

Clay said, “Roy, get out of here quick. That mob will be starting for the judge’s place any time now.”

Ponders turned around and stared at Clay with glazed eyes. Blood ran down the side of his face from a bullet burn along his temple. Clay reached out to help him to his feet, but he pushed himself up, knocking aside Clay’s hand. He turned away and staggered through the door.

“They went back to the Cattlemen’s,” he said. “His voice was thick. “I knew I could stop them!”

“You stopped nothing!” Clay told him. “They went there to find me. When they see I’m gone, they’ll run for the judge’s place to get Tom Roddy. Now get out of here before they go crazy enough to kill you.”

A sudden roar from the Cattlemen’s beat against the air. The doors crashed open and men streamed into the street. Roy Ponders took another step forward. “I’m the law!” he cried. “And they’ll do as I say.”

Clay grabbed at Ponders’ arm, but the sheriff had started to stagger across the sidewalk. Clay swore and limped after him. “Roy, get back in here!”

He heard someone shout, “There’s Belden now! By the jailhouse!”

Clay caught the sheriff at the edge of the board sidewalk. He said, “Sorry, Roy,” and hit Ponders on the jaw. Ponders gazed at him in stupified surprise and then his knees buckled. Clay caught him under the armpits and dragged him back into the jail.

A gun went off and then another. Wood splintered from the jailhouse doorframe. Clay dropped Ponders and slammed shut the door, throwing the heavy locking bar across it. The hard, sharp bark of a rifle sounded and the glass in the barred front window went in with a crash. Clay bent down and jerked the sheriff to his feet. He lifted the stocky body onto his shoulder and ran for the rear door.

He could hear men running toward the alley as he flung Ponders belly-down in front of his saddle. He climbed onto the dun and kicked it into a swift jog. A voice shouted his name as he rode through the patches of light coming from the cell windows. A gun began hammering, forcing the dun to a panicky gallop that drew it swiftly out of range.

Clay rode into the judge’s rear yard and pulled up the dun by the small stable near Tom Roddy’s dark and silent cottage. He slid Ponders to the ground and then slapped the dun on the flank, sending it into the safety of the stable. He bent down, intending to pick up the sheriff’s limp body, when he saw a shadow move by the corner of Roddy’s cottage. He straightened up and swung around, his hand reaching for his gun.

Bick Damson’s heavy voice stopped him when his fingers were only inches from his gun butt. “You move again, Belden, and I’ll put a bullet in your friend there. And in you too.”

Damson stepped forward, into the bright moonlight. He motioned at Clay with the barrel of his gun. “Pull your gun out real easy and throw it away,” he ordered. He watched Clay narrowly. “And no tricks. I know Roy ain’t hurt too bad. I already had a look at him. So if you want him to stay alive a while longer, do as I say.”

Clay could sense tension threading through Damson’s voice. Damson wasn’t used to this kind of violence, Clay decided. He was a man who had always done his fighting with his fists. He didn’t seem to feel easy with a gun in his hand.

Slowly, Clay drew his   .44, holding the butt with the tips of his fingers. He tossed the gun toward Damson and let his arm fall back. He glanced toward the lighted house, thinking that Tom Roddy might have heard Damson and come out to investigate. But the yard was a big one, and there was no sign of anyone moving about in it.

Clay looked at Damson. “If you’re going to shoot me, get it over with,” he said quietly.

Damson laughed. “Why should I kill you when I can get your old friends to do it for me? Listen!”

The sound of the mob coming down the street was clear now, a ragged thudding of running feet, the crying out of drunken, angry voices.

Damson’s voice thickened. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you, Belden. You and me, we’re going into that stable where it’s nice and quiet. I’m going to pay you back them beatings you gave me. Then I’ll let you listen to Ted Petrie and all them other fine citizens take care of your friends in the house. After that, they can have you.”

Despite the bluster in Damson’s voice, Clay thought he detected something like fear beneath it. Vanner had swept him into a current a little too strong for him to swim against. And now he was giving under the strain. Whey else would he risk his chance of success by taking time out to revenge himself on Clay for two bad beatings?

But, Clay realized, Damson had the time to spare, while he didn’t. Every minute the crowd was drawing closer. Unless Clay could warn those inside the judge’s house that the crowd wasn’t demanding Tom Roddy’s arrest but had come to attack and destroy, they would be unprepared. Judge Lyles was like Roy Ponders in that he assumed every man had respect enough for the law to listen to it.

Clay took a step toward the stable, at the same time moving closer to the sheriff’s limp body. “If you want a fight, let’s get at it,” he said.

Damson brought his free hand up from his side. A rope was held in it. “You just drop down on your knees, Belden, so I can throw a loop over you. Then we’ll be ready to fight.” His laugh had a high shrillness in it. “And don’t get no ideas. I can throw a one-handed loop better’n any man in the valley.”

Clay turned and watched Damson switch his gun to his left hand while he built a loop with his right. Moonlight slanted down on Damson’s face, revealing the madness which had driven him to revenge himself on Clay in a bare-hand beating.

“On your knees!”

Clay took another step forward and went to his knees beside the sheriff. He leaned forward, dropping his arms down in a strangely submissive attitude. He heard the whine of the loop as Damson whirled the rope around, ready to drop it over him and pin his arms to his sides. He inched his fingers forward over the dew-damp grass. They touched the cold butt of Roy Ponders’ gun.

The rope swished toward Clay. He drew the sheriff’s   .44 and threw himself to one side, rolling in an effort to come around facing Damson. He heard a wild curse of anger and then Damson fired. His bullet thudded into the grass where Clay had been kneeling. Clay brought the sheriff’s gun up across his chest and fired while he was still moving.

Damson went backwards, striking the wall of Roddy’s cottage with his heavy shoulders. He lifted his gun slowly, bringing it to bear on Clay with a steady sweep. Clay stopped rolling and fired twice. Damson’s body jerked. His arm dropped toward the ground and he staggered, trying to thrust himself toward Clay. His finger pulled convulsively at the trigger of his gun, emptying its bullets into the ground. He made a final effort to lift the gun, and then he collapsed, falling with his arms bent under him.

Clay got to his feet and picked up his own gun. He heard the voices of the mob coming from less than half a block up the street. He turned quickly to Roy Ponders.

The rear door of the house had been flung open and light streamed across the veranda and into the yard. “What’s going on there!” Tom Roddy called.

Clay hurried into the light carrying the sheriff. “Tom,” he called, “get the judge and Tonia and come on. That’s a lynch mob coming!”

Tonia appeared in the doorway. “Clay?” she asked worriedly.

Clay said, “Get your father while I hitch up the team!”

A sudden burst of gunfire rattled in the air. It was followed by the sound of breaking glass and a cry of rage from Tom Roddy.

“It’s too late!” he shouted. “Tonia, go get them guns out of the rack!”

Clay swore in bitter anger. He managed to run unevenly to the house, carrying the sheriff.

C
LAY
stood at the small window set in the front door and watched the mob outside. They had been quiet since the first flurry of shots, and now some of the local men in the front rank were shifting their weight awkwardly, as if they were beginning to wish they hadn’t come this far. Attacking Clay Belden or Tom Roddy was one thing, their movements seemed to say; attacking a man like Judge Lyles was something else. But Vanner’s men were at work, building up drunken anger again.

Clay looked around the room behind him. Judge Lyles, his lips white-rimmed with helpless anger, was staring across the room at the shattered front window. Tom Roddy stood out of sight at the corner of the other window, his jaws working steadily on a quid of tobacco. Tonia was finishing the bandage around Roy Ponders’ head. The lamps were out but moonlight came through the broken window to light much of the room.

Clay had told them what had happened. Now the sheriff said, “Let me be, Tonia. I want to go out and talk to those fools.”

“It’s too late for talk,” Clay said flatly. “Even if Tom and I gave ourselves up, Vanner would find a reason to get rid of the rest of you. He worked that mob up for only one reason — to take over the town and the valley with it.”

Outside, someone shouted Bick Damson’s name in an angry voice.

“They’ve found Damson’s body,” Clay said. “One of us had better watch the back of the house.”

Tom Roddy turned from the front window and padded silently out of the room. Roy Ponders hesitated, and then picked up a carbine. He took Roddy’s place.

Clay turned back to watch the street. Two of the strangers were coming into the street, carrying Damson’s body with them. A murmur of anger arose. Ted Petrie staggered forward, shaking a fist in the air. “We know you’re in there, Belden! Come on out. You too, Roddy! Turn ‘em loose, judge, and you won’t get hurt.”

Voices in the rear of the crowd shouted, “Send the murderers out before we come and get them!”

Judge Lyles wheeled his chair forward to the broken window. Tonia ran toward him, a carbine in her hand. Clay caught her and pulled her back. “Stand by the corner of the window,” he directed. “If you see anyone lift a gun, shoot!” He took a position at the outside corner where he could watch without being seen.

The judge stopped his chair in full view of those outside. “Stay where you are!” he ordered. “No man comes in here without my say so. And no man takes the law into his own hands in this valley.” His voice sharpened. “Petrie, who appointed you as the law?”

Petrie hesitated and then took a bold step forward. “You’re hiding killers, Judge. Who are you to talk about the law?”

The judge’s voice was strong and decisive. “What court judged Belden and Roddy killers?” he demanded.

“We heard plenty of stories!” someone behind Petrie called.

“So have I,” the judge called back. “I heard one tonight — one you can prove. Bick Damson and Kemp Vanner have no silver of their own. They’ve been stealing ore from Belden’s land.”

“That’s Belden’s story!” a voice mocked.

“Take an hour and go see for yourself,” the judge challenged. “If you’ve appointed yourself the law, act like the law! Find the proof of a man’s guilt and bring him to trial.”

He leaned forward. “You, Petrie, and your friends. Would you rather be tried by a court or by a mob? Ask yourselves that!”

Voices in the rear hooted derisively, but Petrie stood with his arms at his sides. He turned and looked at the other local men behind him. “Maybe …” he began doubtfully.

Clay caught sudden movement at the back of the crowd. Moonlight picked out a glittering pattern of light on a quickly lifted rifle barrel. Clay raised his carbine and fired. The other gun went off, its bullet thudding above the window where the judge sat. The rifleman cried out and staggered to one side.

“Don’t listen to the old fool!” someone shouted. “Get Belden and Roddy!”

Clay reached out and pulled the judge’s chair behind him as other guns opened fire. Bullets scoured through the broken window and struck the back wall of the room. Tonia sighted carefully and fired twice. The shooting stopped abruptly.

Ted Petrie had a sick look on his face. “I’m leaving,” he said. He tried to push his way through the crowd, other men with him followed suit. For a moment the mob was a swirling, shapeless mass. Then Petrie was thrown clear. He staggered, blinded by blood flowing from a cut on his forehead. He fell to the ground and rolled to the base of the veranda. He lay there, not trying to get up.

Angry shouts rose from the local men now. Some of them broke off from the edge of the crowd and ran awkwardly up the street. A cold, thin voice lifted out of the shadow cast by a barn across the way.

“Drive them out!” Kemp Vanner cried. “Or the judge will have you all hanging from the end of a rope. Get to cover and drive them out!”

A dozen local men were fleeing, but others stayed with Vanner’s men, spreading out, finding cover behind fence posts and in shadow.

Clay searched the darkness, trying to pinpoint Vanner’s position by his voice. Then he heard the swift beat of a horse galloping and he lowered his carbine. Vanner had given his orders and run for safety.

Ted Petrie rolled to his feet and made a sudden sprint up the veranda steps for the front door. A   .44 rolled out its deep sound, and Petrie flung up his arms and pitched against a pillar. He fell to the porch floor and lay jerking, his hands clawing at the wood in an effort to pull himself forward.

Roy Ponders swore. “What’s the matter with that crazy fool?”

“He likes our side better now,” Clay said dryly. He handed the judge his carbine. Can you cover me from this corner, sir? I’m going out and bring him in.”

The judge wheeled his chair into position without bothering to reply. Clay jerked open the front door and stepped back, away from it. A hail of bullets struck the front of the house and searched through the open door. At the rear of the room a lamp shattered and the sharp smell of coal oil filled the air.

Ponders smashed the window in front of him with his gun butt and began shooting. Tonia and the judge kept up a steady cross-angled sniping. The firing from outside stopped. Clay darted out of the door and grabbed Petrie’s wrists. He shambled backwards, pulling the man after him into the house.

A bullet drove wood from the edge of the doorway as Clay went through. The judge’s gun cracked sharply and a man at the edge of the yard rose up and flopped into the street. Clay rolled Petrie inside and kicked the heavy front door shut.

“Shoulder wound, I think,” Clay panted. “If we can get him to Doc Fraley soon enough, he’ll probably be all right.”

A deep-throated burst of firing from the back of the house swung Clay around. That was Tom Roddy’s gun, and it meant only one thing. There was an attack at the rear too.

Clay drew his   .44 and raced into the kitchen. Tom Roddy stood by an open window, squinting along the barrel of his ancient rifle. Light flared suddenly by the stable as someone lit a torch. Roddy fired and the man carrying the torch came into sight. He stumbled across the yard and fell, crushing the flaming torch under his body.

“That’s two!” Roddy said.

“And two dozen left,” Clay answered. “If they ever get up courage enough to make a rush, we won’t be able to stop them.”

“Where are all the good citizens in this town?” Roddy demanded. “Hiding under their beds?”

“There hasn’t been any trouble here for so long, few of them know what to do,” Clay said. He started for the back door.

Roddy’s gun cracked again. An answering shot struck the wall beside the window. “Where you going?” he demanded. “There’s half a dozen of ‘em hiding out there.”

“After Kemp Vanner,” Clay said. “That’s the only way to stop this. With him out of the way, his men will break and run, and the others will stop when they haven’t any support.”

Tonia came into the kitchen. “Clay! Someone just managed to get through from town. The citizens there are gathering. If we can hold out a little while …”

“There’s your answer,” Clay said to Roddy. “They decided to crawl out from under their beds.” He put his hand on the door latch. “That means the ones outside will have to hit us soon.”

A torch flared at the corner of Roddy’s small cottage. A voice cried, “Burn them out! Burn them out!”

Clay threw open the door and fired in the direction of the light. The man carrying the torch moved, running toward the alley. Clay said briefly, “Cover me,” and stepped outside.

He slid under the porch railing to the ground and ran in a zigzag to the stable. Behind him, Tonia and Roddy fired, sweeping every shadow. A gun blossomed flame to Clay’s left. He swung in that direction and shot. The other gun went off again, aimed straight upward, and then was silent.

A bullet nicked Clay’s boot heel as he threw himself into the darkness of the stable. He heard the judge’s horses stirring restlessly. He made a soft clicking sound with his tongue and the dun moved cautiously forward, sniffing in his direction.

Clay caught the reins and swung into the saddle. He flattened himself over the dun’s neck. Then he kicked his heels into its flanks, sending it hammering through the wide doorway and into the yard. He reined toward the alley. A gun by Roddy’s cottage whipped a bullet through the dun’s mane; then the crack of Tonia’s carbine sounded, and the gun was still.

Clay saw torches beginning to flicker along the streets that sided and fronted the house. He kicked at the dun again, whipping it to a wild gallop toward town. He reasoned that Vanner would be directing his operation from only one place — the Cattlemen’s Bar.

Once past the jailhouse, Clay made the same wide swing as before to reach the rear of the Cattlemen’s Bar. He stopped and drew his gun after he’d dismounted. He climbed the steps to the upper hallway. He stopped in front of Molly Doane’s door and reached for the latch.

The door opened and light flooded out, making him blink. Molly stood in the doorway. She stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. Behind her, he saw Kemp Vanner holding a gun pressed to her spine.

“Come in, Belden,” Vanner said lightly. “The lady has been hoping for your company. But give me your gun first. We don’t want any accidents.”