Clay Nash 21

by Brett Waring

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  The Jarvess bunch had a hard reputation. Over the years Old Man Jarvess and his sons, Tag and Chet, had robbed and slaughtered their way right across the territory. And they kept the proceeds from their robberies hidden away high up in the hills, where only they could ever get at it.

  Until Cody Mann came along …

  Cody was every bit as villainous as the Jarvess bunch, and when he found the Old Man shot full of holes and dying fast, his first priority was to get the location of the hideout. The answer came in the form of a riddle, and before he could solve it, Clay Nash, Wells Fargo’s top agent, clapped a set of manacles on him.

  To help a distraught woman and her crippled husband, however, Clay had to trust Cody Mann to take him to the loot. And trusting Cody Mann was a bit like trusting a hungry bobcat …

  CLAY NASH 21: THE BLOOD OF CODY MANN

  By Brett Waring

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Digital Edition: April 2020

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Chapter One – The Debt

  It was Cody Mann’s own choice to ride the owlhoot trail.

  He might have made a career for himself as a cattle rancher or even as a lawman of some note, for Cody was tolerably fast with a gun and he could handle his fists well. He was a big swaggering hombre who could laugh as easily as he could smash a man’s face in—and not miss a draw on his cigarette either time.

  Cody was around twenty-five and it was anyone’s guess what his background was—he told so many different stories that no one knew where fact ended and fantasy began. More often than not, both things met head-on and intermingled in Cody’s telling. No woman within twenty miles of him was safe, be she married or single, but he did have a kind of stubborn respect for young ladies who had obviously not seen much of life. Some said it was because he’d had a young sister who’d died tragically from some obscure disease.

  But the fact was, no one really knew Cody Mann. At times, there were indications that Cody didn’t even know himself any too well, the way he behaved. He was a volatile hard case when the mood took him—and often he walked away leaving bodies and destruction strewn behind him.

  But while Cody could be a dangerous man, mostly he just enjoyed himself. Trouble was, his idea of ‘fun’ didn’t always match up with that of other folks’ ...

  Such as the time he was broke and riding the grubline and he hit this two-man-and-a-dog town called Handy’s Flats. It was at the tail-end of nowhere, far beyond the railroad, but had a once-a-week Wells Fargo stage service.

  At the time Cody had drifted in, stubbled, wolf-lean and dusty, the stage was carrying the local banker. He’d decided to transfer his stock of gold dust to a larger bank in Denver. But he didn’t fancy riding the stage without some sort of protection and as Wells Fargo only ran a passenger and not an Express service out to Handy’s Flats, the agent was at something of a loss.

  “Hell, Mr. Handy,” the Wells Fargo man said, scratching at his balding scalp. “I dunno what to do. This is just a one-man set-up as you know ...”

  “I’m entitled to protection like any other Wells Fargo passenger,” growled Jacob Handy, whose father had founded the settlement. “If I have to, I’ll wait until you can send for someone to ride me down with a shotgun in his lap. But I don’t want to have to do that. If I’m forced into it, I’ll make life hard for Wells Fargo for a while, you can bet on that.”

  The agent bit his lip. He knew Jacob Handy would do exactly as he threatened.

  “Well, look, Mr. Handy, stage don’t get here till day after tomorrow. S’posin’ I pin up a notice outside, askin’ for volunteers to ride shotgun to the railhead with you? The company’ll pay, of course ...”

  “Damn right they will!” cut in Handy. He nodded jerkily. “All right, Baines. Advertise. But if you hire someone he better be damn trustworthy. I’m warning you, if anything happens to that gold dust, I’ll sue this company till it’s brought to its knees.”

  “We-ell, we insure all our express goods, Mr. Handy, but I dunno about what’s carried personal-like ...”

  “That’s your problem. Just get me protection by the time the stage is due to leave.”

  Jacob Handy slapped on his derby hat and abruptly walked out, his chin tilted aggressively in the air. Baines sighed, muttered a curse and made out a notice. He was just pinning it up outside the ramshackle stage depot as Cody Mann’s weary, head-hanging mount plodded by. Cody, red-eyed and stomach growling, looked up in time to read the first large words: “GUARD WANTED.”

  He stopped his mount and squinted at the rest of the sign as Baines tapped home the last thumbtack and went back into the depot. The agent almost jumped out of his skin when he went behind the counter and Cody Mann’s tall frame blocked out the light coming through the door. He flicked the torn notice onto the scarred counter.

  Baines glanced up, his jaw agape. “What the ...?”

  “I’m applyin’,” Cody said. “I can handle a shotgun or any other kinda gun. Used to ride shotgun on the old Butterworth Stageline in Californy. Done my share at bank-guardin’, too.”

  Cody was lying, of course. The only guarding he’d done in any bank had been to watch for the sheriff while his pards robbed the safe. It was true he had ridden shotgun once on the Butterworth line—but that had been merely to force the driver to stop along the trail where his pards waited to steal the express box.

  But, to Baines, he sounded like the answer to his prayers. And the man sure looked big enough to scare off any trouble.

  “Mister, you ain’t even asked how much it pays.”

  “Mister, I don’t care,” Cody grinned with his usual devilish charm. “Long as I puts some grub in my belly and a couple bucks in my pocket.”

  “We-ell, I guess it’ll do that,” Baines allowed, shrewdly seeing a chance of hiring Cody cheaply. “Twenty bucks one-way trip down to railhead at Yellowdog.”

  Cody smiled thinly. “Shaved it some, I’d reckon, ain’t you, pard?”

  Baines shrugged. “Take it or leave it. There’ll be other men wantin’ the job.”

  Cody laughed, “Pull my other leg, amigo. It rings a bell. But you can relax. I’ll take the chore. I ain’t fussy, an’ I was headed down Yellowdog way so I’ll save the fare.”

  Baines blinked, surprised he had got the man so cheaply and so quickly. But he was fast enough to seal the deal and offered Cody the lean-to behind the depot to sleep in and tether his horse until stage time.

  It suited Cody.

  He was fed and he had a warm bed for the night. He charmed Baines out of a five-dollar advance, then went to the saloon and washed the dust out of his craw with a few glasses of red eye and beer.

  In the process, he managed to find out that Banker Jacob Handy would be carrying five thousand dollars’ worth of gold dust in his valise when he rode the stage out of town ...

  That was good news for Cody. To celebrate, he picked a fight with a bunch of cowpunchers and laid out all four and the saloon bouncer as well before dusting off his hand
s and picking up the biggest and blowsiest of the dance hall gals and carrying her up to her room across one massive shoulder.

  He claimed she didn’t even ask for her money ...

  Jacob Handy was a miserable son of a bitch, Cody had decided soon after the stage had pulled out of town. The banker had thin, tight lips, gimlet eyes, and looked the kind who could foreclose a widow’s mortgage while stuffing his face with rich food. He was the kind of hombre Cody hated. The big outlaw felt no guilt at all about planning to relieve him of that gold dust.

  It no longer belonged to the men who had panned or grubbed it out of the wilderness, the battlers and gunslingers who had likely spent months accumulating the yellow flakes—only to be short-changed by Jacob Handy when they had brought it into his bank to cash. The stage driver had told Cody it was well-known that Handy had a silver dollar taped to the bottom of his scales ...

  So, Cody was actually looking forward to taking the gold from the well-fed banker. He hoped he wouldn’t have any trouble with the driver, who seemed a halfway decent hombre, or the other passengers. One was a woman, a vinegary old maid on some crusading mission to the State Governor demanding the banning of dancehall girls. Next to her was a hungover cowboy who kept dozing off and leaning his head against her shoulder—outraging her by breathing his beery odor all over her. Opposite, sat the fat banker, and, beside him, one of his fawning clerks, a small, thin man obviously scared silly of Jacob Handy. He even dusted the man’s shoes after he’d boarded the coach.

  Cody rode silently beside the driver and watched the country roll by. Twice he reached out to haul rein and guide the stage team onto the roughest stretch, shaking the bones of the protesting passengers. He merely grinned at the startled driver and winked. The man smiled nervously.

  “You could cost me my job,” he said hoarsely.

  “Hell, I’ll take the blame if they complain to the company,” Cody said. “Tell ’em you handed me the reins while you rolled a smoke or somethin’.”

  The driver frowned. “Maybe you’d better stick around an’ tell ’em that yourself in case someone does complain—that lousy Jacob Handy’s sure to beef about the rough ride.”

  “He’ll have more’n that to beef about, amigo,” Cody said suddenly and reached to grab the reins again.

  But this time he hauled back hard, shoved a long leg across the driver’s legs and jammed on the brake. The stage shuddered to a trembling halt.

  “What the blazes ...” he exclaimed.

  Cody grinned, dropped the reins and lifted the big, double-barreled Ithaca shotgun and pointed it at the white-faced driver.

  “Climb down, amigo. I don’t wanna hurt you. But I’ll blow a leg off you if I have to, savvy?”

  The driver nodded, quickly climbed over the side and dropped to the ground. Cody followed. He looked around him, nodding in satisfaction.

  He had stopped the stage in the middle of a vast sage flat, interspersed with yucca and juniper. It stretched away to the horizon on all sides. They were in the middle of nowhere.

  Cody motioned to the driver to open the stage door. As he did so, the old maid fell out in a whirl of black skirts and white lace petticoats.

  Cody whistled appreciatively.

  “Ma’am, I declare you do show a fine turn of ankle there.”

  The woman was outraged.

  The cowboy staggered out and grimaced in the bright sunlight. Jacob Handy was wedged between the seats and the little clerk was desperately trying to get him free.

  Cody reached in, lifted the clerk out effortlessly, and deposited him beside the old maid.

  “Leave the sonuver where he is,” Cody said, then bowed slightly in the direction of the woman. “Sorry for the cussin’, ma’am. I picked it up from one of them terrible dancehall gals. They cuss somethin’ awful at times, and fair corrupt a feller.”

  The woman tilted her narrow chin at him. “You may mock me, young man, but I’m making a note of your appearance and your likeness shall adorn a ‘wanted’ dodger before very long, I promise you.”

  Cody laughed. “Hope it’s better than the ones they already got of me.”

  The woman stepped back, a hand going to her throat, and blood draining from her face. “My goodness. You—you are already wanted? An outlaw?”

  Cody looked at her with mock concern. “Terrible, ain’t it, ma’am? I had no church upbringin’, you see? Guess that’s where the trouble lies. Never did learn them Commandments like ‘Thou shalt not steal’ or ‘Covet thy neighbor’s wife’ or somethin’ ...”

  “How the devil did a rascal like you get the job of riding shotgun?” grunted Jacob Handy managing to scramble from between the seats.

  “Just good luck, I reckon, banker. Good luck for me, that is. Not so good for you.” Cody reached out and snatched the sweating man’s valise.

  “Here. Give me that back at once. O’Brien.”

  The little clerk jumped as he heard his name and Cody couldn’t help smiling when the bantam actually cocked his fists. The big road agent merely pushed him onto his backside in the dust then slammed Handy’s groping hands aside as the man tried to get back his valise. The barrels of the shotgun made a smart thwack across the pudgy knuckles—and Jacob Handy hurriedly snatched his hands away—dancing in pain as he flapped them, wildly.

  Cody looked at the others. The cowboy was being sick in the brush. The old maid looked disgusted but afraid. The gray-faced driver stood stiffly with his hands in the air. The little clerk had decided to remain seated on the ground.

  Cody Mann prodded Handy in his big belly.

  “Unhitch that team, mister.”

  “Wh-at? I can’t ...”

  “You better, or I’ll blow your goddamn big toe off.”

  The woman covered her ears as the banker swallowed and lumbered forward to get the team out of its harness.

  “You can’t leave us out here without hosses,” protested the driver.

  Cody winked and gestured to the laboring banker.

  “He dunno it yet, but he’ll walk on into Yellerdog an’ bring back help for you. Rest of you folk just set it out in comfort in the stage. Ol’ Jacob’ll make sure you’re rescued. I guarantee it.”

  “You’ll never get away with this, young man,” croaked the woman.

  Cody looked repentant.

  “I know, ma’am. I’ll have to face my Maker with a black conscience on Judgment Day, but I can’t help myself. It kinda takes control of me an’ I just have to do these things. ’Specially when there’s so much gold dust involved.”

  He shook the valise and barely ten minutes later rode out on his horse which had been tied behind the stage, leading the ten horses. A sweating, swearing, shaking Jacob Handy clung desperately as he tried to keep his balance on one of the mounts.

  Mann laughed and caressed the leather valise slung from his saddlehorn.

  It was his lucky day, it seemed.

  But the next day wasn’t—because he ran into Clay Nash, Wells Fargo’s top detective and trouble-shooter.

  He was camped on the rim of a canyon, choosing the site with care so that he could watch the trails below. It was early evening and he had a pinpoint campfire going, just enough to cook the jackrabbit he’d shot earlier.

  Cody whistled softly between his teeth as the jackrabbit slowly broiled. He glanced towards his bedroll and the valise he’d taken from Jacob Handy.

  There were a dozen chamois leather bags in that case, crammed with gold dust, tied off with rawhide thong and sealed with the bank’s wire and lead medallion. Five thousand bucks was a mighty good haul and he figured it would take him clear down to Mexico where he knew a couple of señoritas—who’d be happy to help him spend it.

  Cody Mann gave no thought to the future. Money was for having a good time with. Now. Let the future take care of itself.

  That was his philosophy and he’d lived by it for quite a few years and never regretted one minute of that time—except for the six months he’d spent on the rock pile in Yuma Sta
te Penitentiary. But even that time had netted him some kind of profit, for he’d learned from another inmate how to blow a safe ...

  But the gold dust was going to be just for a real wingding of a time. He didn’t aim to use it to finance any jobs as he had at other times in the past. It would be strictly for pleasure. And he aimed to get his full share.

  “That cottontail smells mighty good, Cody. Got enough for two, you reckon?”

  Mann dropped the stick holding the carcass and whirled, his hand streaking for his gun as the deep, casual voice sounded behind him.

  But he froze with his gun just starting to lift clear of leather when he saw the tall man with the hawk like face standing at the edge of the trees, a cocked Winchester rifle in his hands.

  “Judas Priest!” Cody hissed. “Clay Nash.” He groaned. “How in hell ... I—”

  “Plain bad luck, Cody. For you,” Nash told him, coming closer to the campfire. He jerked the barrel of the Winchester. “Just let that six-gun kind of flop out of the holster to the ground there, Cody, an’ move away some, huh?”

  The outlaw sighed, used his thumb and forefinger to lift the Colt out of its holster and let it drop beside his boot. Still squatting, he frog-walked away from it a few feet. Nash’s gun barrel jerked again and he moved off a little more.

  “Fine. Yeah, Cody, like I said, just plain bad luck for you. Jacob Handy’s bitchin’ loud enough to be heard clear down to Denver. He raised Cain over the telegraph wires after he limped into Yellowdog, minus his boots and trousers ...” He laughed briefly. “Nice touch that, Cody. Anyways, the wire hummed—and I happened to be ridin’ a stage back to Denver, just south of Yellowdog.”

  “God-damn,” Cody cussed. “Just my lousy luck that you were so blamed close, Nash. But how the hell did you manage to sneak up on me? I been watchin’ my backtrail, an’ all around, like a goddamn hawk. Weren’t no sign of you before sundown, I’ll swear.”

  “Luck again, Cody. My bronc had taken a fall in the desert. And I’d punctured my canteen on a flint rock. I knew the nearest water was the stream that runs through yonder canyon, so I swung away from the trail to make camp here tonight. I didn’t see your fire, but I sure smelled the smoke and that there jackrabbit. You might as well keep on cookin’ it.”