Clay Nash 11

by Brett Waring

  Yeah, he thought, as he took his seat in the stage again, touching a hand to his hat brim in brief salute to the young widow who was cooing over her baby, it was going to be a long trail to Santa Fe.

  There was only one major river to cross before the climb into the Arrowhead Hills. It was called the Longbow and flowed through the Arrowhead Gorge. Parts of it were deep and swift-flowing, but there were several places shallow enough for fording.

  For instance, at the usual Wells Fargo crossing called Trooper’s Ford, the water was only inches deep, flowing over smooth pebbles for five yards either side before starting to get deeper, finally forming into a swift current that was as much as twenty feet deep in places.

  On the far side of the crossing, the trail began its first winding approaches into the foothills of the Arrowheads. To the left, the country opened out beyond the gorge’s confines, filling rapidly with brush and timber, leading into high-rising hills honeycombed with canyons that few men visited; for this was bear country and cougars and pumas ranged the rocks, often standing atop a boulder to watch the coach horses slake their thirst at the river crossing.

  Swinging to the right of the trail, the country deteriorated almost immediately into broken rock and piled up logs and old, weed-draped tree trunks that had been washed down during flood time.

  And, straight ahead, the trail rose fairly steeply and began the first of a series of winding climbs into the hills.

  Trooper’s Ford was a good place for an ambush and Nash forced himself to come alert as the stage rolled towards the towering bulk of the hills; a hazy, purple line gnawing gently at the horizon.

  However, braced in his swaying seat as the stage rocked along the trail, the Wells Fargo man suddenly decided against holding onto the derringer inside the satchel. His hand had become cramped and, besides, he felt it would be better to avoid drawing attention to the slit in the compartment. He would keep it as a ‘surprise’ to use in an emergency.

  But he never let the satchel out of his grasp or sight for a moment.

  Widow Briggs sat pressed into a corner, clutching the baby in its shawl close to her. Once or twice Nash had seen her lift a corner of the shawl and smile into the baby’s face. It seemed to sleep a lot and hadn’t made a sound since Mrs. Briggs boarded the stage at the way-station, about four hours previously.

  Once, Harlan had spoken to her in his brusque manner and told her that if she didn’t unwrap the child occasionally, she was running the risk of it suffering heat stroke. But the young woman had shrunk away from him and had held the baby clutched more closely to her body.

  A few miles farther on, Harlan had again warned the woman about the baby’s probable condition, and had reached out to pull at the shawl. Lucy Briggs had turned away swiftly, looking fearful.

  Harlan had thrown his hands up in despair.

  “Damn it, woman! I’m only trying to help that baby before you suffocate it.”

  The young widow’s fear had been obvious and she had looked at Nash as though appealing for help. He had nudged Harlan’s shin with his boot.

  “Leave the lady be, Doc. I guess she knows how she wants to carry her baby.”

  Harlan’s cold eyes had drilled into Nash bleakly.

  “Stay out of this. You know even less than she does.”

  “Doc,” Nash had said as the man began to lean towards the widow again, his hand raised as he reached for the edge of the shawl. “Why don’t you just enjoy the scenery?”

  The medic had shot Nash a savage look, glanced at the woman, then sat back sullenly, his chin propped in his hand, staring out the window. Lucy Briggs had given Nash a shy smile of thanks.

  The sun was dipping low towards the hills as they approached the ford and Nash stirred, knowing this was an ideal time for an attack on the stage. The driver would be part-blinded by the lowering sun, the stage would have to travel slowly on the rising trail, and there was only one path the coach could follow. If it deviated, it would probably wreck itself.

  If he were Will Dodd, that would have been the time and place he would have made his attempt to grab the golden eagle.

  Nash looked out the window and saw the shadow of the stage on the flat ground. Chip was alert, and had his shotgun cradled in both hands, the barrels angled over the side and pointing downwards. The driver was holding all the reins firmly with the whip in one hand, and preparing to make the tricky turn down towards the river ford.

  Inside, Widow Briggs peeked beneath the shawl at her child while Harlan gazed bleakly out the window.

  He looked innocent enough, thought Nash. The man was sitting with his left arm on the window sill and his right hand lying loosely on his right thigh, palm-upwards and fingers curled a little. The hand looked relaxed, but Nash figured it could dart that extra few inches to the butt of the cross draw Colt in a flash if Harlan wanted it to.

  He tightened his grip on the satchel, shifted his buttocks and moved around in general, apparently making himself comfortable, but managing to allow his right hand to come to rest alongside his Colt.

  The stage rolled down the slope towards the wide, shallow ford and Nash tensed, giving as much attention to Harlan inside the stage as he did to the country outside. He scanned the brush and the rocks as the sun’s rays lengthened and deepened the long shadows. There were a hundred places where a man could hide; where a whole slew of outlaws could hide.

  Jack’s, “Whoa, you crazy jugheads!” came at the same time as the screeching rasp of the brake blocks locking onto the wheel rims. Then the iron tires clattered and banged on the river pebbles and Nash craned his neck to look at the clear, riffled water frothing about the wheels while the team drank from the icy-cold stream. He made no pretence at caution as he dropped his hand to his gun butt and darted a sharp look at Harlan.

  The doctor seemed puzzled and frowned as Nash continued to rake his eyes around the country. The widow fiddled with the shawl and moved the baby to a more comfortable position, cooing to it and smiling warmly.

  Nash felt a slight easing of the knot in his stomach as Jack cracked his whip, yelled a stream of blue cusses and got the team moving again. The stage rattled and clattered and swayed across the ford. Then the teams’ hoofs dug into the soft earth as they strained against the harness, pulling the stage up on the first rise of the trail into the Arrowheads.

  Nash relaxed and sat back against the seat cushions but kept his eyes turned towards the open window.

  “Okay, Chip?” he called up.

  “So far,” the guard replied.

  Then Nash looked at Lucy Briggs as she arranged the shawl over her baby again: it had apparently come adrift during the rough crossing. He saw Harlan starting to slide along the seat towards him and he dropped his hand to his gun butt.

  “Don’t touch it, Nash,” said the woman sharply.

  Both Harlan and Nash turned in amazement to gaze at the widow.

  The ‘baby’ was on the seat beside her. The shawl had come loose and it revealed a life-size doll dressed in baby’s clothing.

  Suddenly Nash knew why there hadn’t been a sound from the ‘child’ and why Lucy Briggs had kept fiddling with the shawl: around the doll’s waist was a holster rig and Lucy Briggs was holding the gun it had contained—the hammer notched back to full cock.

  “Just do like I say and you might live a little longer,” the woman snapped, all signs of nervousness and shyness gone. “You sawbones, get your hands out where I can see them. Don’t buy into this and you might live.”

  She jerked the gun barrel.

  “Come on. Both of you: raise your hands.”

  Slowly, Nash and Harlan lifted their hands shoulder-high as the stage began its slow, smooth climb up the trail into the Arrowhead Hills.

  Six – Escape to the Wild Lands

  “There’s a rock shaped like a man’s bald head about a hundred yards along,” Lucy Briggs said, looking at Nash, but by no means ignoring Harlan. “Tell the driver to turn off the main trail there. He’ll find a grade that l
eads down and if he follows the general course of the river, he’ll come to a canyon. He’s to drive in there and stop, do nothing but stop the coach and sit with his hands in his lap. The guard is to throw away his shotgun. Now!”

  Nash gave her a hard look but poked his head out the window and called up to the driver.

  “Jack—we’ve got us a small problem down here. Want you to turn left by a rock that looks like a bald head just up the trail. Can you see it?”

  There was silence from above for a spell and then the driver’s voice drifted down.

  “I see it, Clay. Left, you said?”

  “Left. And, Chip—throw away that shotgun. Let it drop past the window so we can see it fall.”

  “Clay, I—”

  “Do it, Chip,” Nash snapped. “Or I’ll get my head blowed off. And—take her real steady, Jack. We don’t want to roll.”

  “Got it, Clay,” Jack called and they could feel the stage slowing as it approached the bald-head rock.

  A second later, the guard’s shotgun dropped past the window and thudded to the trail.

  The girl nodded at Nash.

  “Now you’re bein’ sensible. Keep it that way and everybody’ll be happy. You’d both better put your guns down on the floor. No. Throw ’em out the window.”

  Neither man made any move to obey, and Lucy Biggs tightened her grip on her gun.

  “Throw ’em out the window, I said,” she snapped.

  “I suppose Will Dodd’s waitin’ for us in that canyon?” Nash asked.

  “Yes. Now—your gun, damn it.”

  “How come you know Dodd? Lew Latham had you figured for genuine. Your husband dyin’ on a hard rock spread up in the hills behind the way-station.”

  The woman tensed as her gaze darted from Nash to the doctor.

  “The guns.”

  “We’ll get around to ’em,” Nash said casually. “How about Dodd?”

  “One of his men is my brother—Talman,” she said quickly, starting to get worried. “I warn you. I’ll shoot if you don’t throw those guns out, pronto.”

  Nash grinned. “Dodd’d kill you if you did that. He’ll want me alive.”

  She moved the gun barrel a little so that it covered the doctor.

  “He ain’t interested in him,” she threatened.

  Harlan’s eyes slitted and he glanced at Nash.

  “Don’t get excited,” he told the girl. “I’ll get rid of the gun.” He started to reach across his body with his right hand but a jerk of the girl’s gun stopped him.

  “Use your left,” she snapped.

  He sighed and started the awkward business of getting his gun out with his left hand. He inched it up and reluctantly dropped it out the window as the stage rocked and began its turn to the left by the bald-head rock.

  Lucy Briggs’ gun swung back to Nash.

  “Now you.”

  Nash shrugged and started to reach awkwardly across his body with his left hand. Suddenly, there was a wild yell from the driver and the sharp crack of his whip as the team hit the harness solidly, jerking the stage forward. Nash had used code when he passed on the girl’s orders to Jack, and was prepared for the sudden lurch. The girl and the doctor were not. When the stage abruptly slammed forward, the girl was thrown to the edge of the seat and was bounced into the air. Nash leapt for her, and Harlan threw himself forward as she started to bring the gun around.

  There was a muffled explosion and the doctor reeled back, grabbing at his side. Nash gripped the woman’s wrist and twisted savagely. She cried out in pain as he wrenched the gun free and heaved her violently back into her seat. The breath gusted from her and she gave a quiet sob as she snatched at her sprained wrist.

  “You all right, Clay?” called the guard, hanging over the side and looking into the stage.

  “Okay, Chip. Tell Jack to turn whenever he can and get back to the trail. Will Dodd’s waitin’ up ahead in a canyon with a wild bunch. They might’ve heard that shot. They’re looking for us, anyway, so they’ll likely come gunnin’.”

  The guard’s head disappeared and Nash glanced from the pale-faced girl to Harlan who was kneeling on the floor, examining the wound in his side.

  “You all right, Doc?”

  “I reckon. Bullet grazed my ribs.” He fumbled in his black bag and took out some clean cotton pads.

  While he doctored himself, Nash glanced out the window, looking towards the canyon. There were no signs of any riders.

  “Thanks for what you did, Doc,” he told Harlan. “Sorry I had you figured for Dodd’s man.”

  Harlan smiled wryly as he stuffed the cotton over the bleeding wound.

  “I knew something was wrong the way she kept that so-called baby swaddled up in this heat. I figured it was already dead or dyin’. There had to be somethin’ loco about it. Two hours in the waitin’ room at the way-station, four hours in the stage, and not even a wet diaper to change. Didn’t ring true, but I could see she was all shook-up about somethin’. I figured that durin’ the run to Santa Fe I could gain her confidence and see what was really botherin’ her. I never reckoned it would be anythin’ like this.”

  Nash set his cold gaze on the woman as she clung to the seat while the coach rocked and rumbled and swayed over broken trails. Jack was trying to find a place to turn but the area was too narrow and he had to draw closer to the canyon entrance while he searched.

  “What happened to your real baby?” Nash asked her suddenly.

  Her eyes clouded and, for a moment, her full lower lip trembled slightly.

  “She—died up in the hills. We had no money for a doctor and we were too far away to try to get one, to come up to the ranch. Tom—my husband—decided to ride in anyway. But—the horse threw him and he broke his neck. While I was—buryin’ him, the—baby just—passed away—”

  Her voice broke a little though she made a strong effort not to allow her emotions to show.

  “Then your brother came out of nowhere with Dodd and put a proposition to you, huh? Get the drop on me in the stage and—what? You were to get a share of the eagle?”

  He tapped the satchel at his side. The girl nodded.

  “I needed money to go East, to my married sister in Denver.”

  “Here they come, Clay,” roared Chip from up top suddenly. “Out of the canyon. Five of ’em—no, six. One’s draggin’ a ways.”

  “Make a run for it, Jack,” Nash yelled but the driver was already doing his best to get the stage away from the outlaws.

  The trail was narrow and the canyon mouth was slightly above the coach. Jack saw that to make his turn in one sweeping arc, he would have to ride into the canyon itself. So, with the outlaws thundering down on him, he yanked the reins and ran the team into a rocky bed, stopping the front wheels of the coach just short of the first of the rough boulders. He backed and filled, yanking and sawing and cussing, while Chip rapidly began shooting at the outlaws, not bothering to aim.

  It scattered them and made them duck and, for a few moments, they held their fire. Those few moments gave Jack all the time he needed to get the coach turned around. It tilted dangerously on the edge of the slope as he heaved the team around.

  The stage rocked and swayed and banged and an iron tire struck sparks from a rock as it bounced across but finally it was turned about.

  The horses hit the harness collars with a thud that shook the coach and then the wheels spun up a cloud of choking dust and the whole rig was racing back towards the trail. Will Dodd and his men came thundering in, shooting wildly, but unable to select targets because of the thick dust cloud. They spread out but the dust seemed to roll with them as it boiled up through the narrow defile and Dodd and his men had no choice but to fall in behind the stage and follow it. They knew that once it hit the regular trail there would be room for them to fan out on either side, overtake it, and pick off the guard and driver.

  Moran rode behind the main body of the outlaws, favoring his side where he had been wounded in the hold-up at High Hat. Reeli
ng with fever and weakness, he fired once in a while without purpose, merely letting Dodd know that he was still with the bunch and doing what he could .

  Inside the coach, it was a mighty rough ride. As the vehicle bounced and clattered along, Nash and the others hung on grimly. The girl gripped a window frame and the edge of her corner seat, pressing back against the thin upholstery, her eyes showing some fear and obviously thinking they were going to crash at any time.

  It wasn’t an unreasonable thought, either, Nash reckoned. Jack was driving like a maniac, taking desperate risks, bouncing the stage over rock fields that he would normally take his time weaving through. Any time, Nash half expected to hear the ringing clang of a tire jolting loose from the rim and then the splintering of collapsing spokes. Or maybe he would just have time to glimpse the spinning world through the window before the whole kit-and-caboodle somersaulted and skidded along upside down or on its side, plowing a wide furrow across the rugged hillside.

  Although he had faith in Jack as a driver—he had been especially selected for this run—Nash would rather have been up top beside the man to see just what was going on, instead of being inside and flung about like a corncob in a husker.

  There was so much noise going on in and around the stage that he couldn’t hear the gunfire. Fighting the forces of acceleration, Nash clawed his way to a window, grabbed the edge of the frame, and heaved himself along the narrow seat. He squinted out into the boiling dust but could see nothing behind. To the side, rocks and brush whipped past, alarmingly close, and ahead, all he could see was more dust boiling up and hurtling back at him from under the front wheels and the hoofs of the flying team.

  He pulled his head back in, coughing, figuring he just had to leave it all up to Jack.

  Harlan seemed little the worse for the bullet graze in his side. He had managed to bandage himself before the wild ride had started in earnest. He was crouched beside the window on the opposite side to Nash, holding tightly to the woman’s gun. He glanced at Nash.