Clay Nash 11

by Brett Waring

  “You see ’em?” he barked.

  Nash shook his head. “Too much dust. Which is just as well. They can’t see us to shoot at properly. But once we hit the hardpan of the regular trail there won’t be so much dust and they’ll have plenty of room to swing out around us and come in from both sides. Save your ammo till then.”

  Harlan nodded and returned his gaze to the window.

  Jack tried to stand in the seat but the motion was far too rough. The whip lashed and cracked and the curses roared out of him in an endless stream. Chip hung on hard to the iron seat rail. He turned, his bandanna over his nose and mouth and squinted into the dust screen. As soon as he could see something through the swirling haze, he was going to start shooting.

  The stage approached the bald-head rock and Jack handled the lurching vehicle like the veteran he was. He kicked at the brake bar and slammed on the pressure. Then he released it, allowed the stage to roll a couple of yards and slammed on the brake again, releasing it almost immediately. The iron tires skidded over the rough ground, unable to bite, but because the pressure was not sustained, the coach did not go into a slide. This was the danger, that it would begin a slide that could not be stopped and would end up turning turtle.

  Jack juggled the brake bar and reins, forgetting the whip and howling at the team to slow down and to turn. His shoulders were rigid as the muscles took the strain. The dust began to settle. Chip, sliding about on his seat, could see hazy shadows. He triggered and the rifle bucked in his hand. He braced his boots against the footboard as the stage slewed and rocked dangerously, then straightened to an even keel as it finally slid onto the regular Arrowhead trail. Jack let out one almighty ‘yaaaa-haaaa!’ cracked his whip rapidly, and flicked the reins.

  The sweating team slammed into the harness and the stage hardly lost any speed as they strained to heave it up the slope of the trail. Chip could see Dodd and his men coming in around the bald-head rock. His lead sprayed sandstone from the rock and one of the raiders swung violently aside as the bullet ricocheted.

  Will Dodd swung out onto the trail, threw his rifle to his shoulder and stood in the stirrups. His rifle whiplashed and Chip spun back into his seat, sobbing, his rifle falling over the side. Jack jerked towards him, seeing the blood spurting from his shoulder.

  Chip awkwardly dragged out his six-gun with his left hand and began shooting over the top of the coach, his right arm hanging uselessly. Jack lashed wildly with the whip and turned his full attention to the team.

  Clay Nash leaned out the window and snapped a shot at a rider. He saw a brief spurt of dust from the rim of the man’s hat as the rider reeled a little then kept coming and returned the fire.

  The lead punched through the side of the coach and the girl gave a small scream and covered her face with her hands. Nash reached up and dragged her onto the floor between the seats. Harlan was shooting out of his window and cussing under his breath as he missed. He seemed to blame the unfamiliar gun that he was using, looking at it savagely after each shot.

  “See how much thought Dodd’s givin’ you now?” Nash rapped at the white-faced girl.

  She said nothing, but crouched low as more bullets tore up the coach body, sending splinters flying and punching holes in the upholstery. Nash lifted his head up and snapped a shot outside. But he wasn’t hitting anything. The riders were a little above the coach on his side, putting their mounts up the first slope of the hills and shooting down to advantage. A couple of men thundered along behind, shooting directly into the body of the coach. There was one man on Harlan’s side, on the same level as the stage, using a rifle.

  Nash wondered how long it would be before Dodd started shooting at the horses. Then there would be one hell of a pile-up and there wouldn’t be anything much that he could do to prevent himself being injured. Likely he would be in no shape to protect the eagle any longer and Dodd would simply walk in, kill those who had survived the crash and pick up the satchel with the statue in it and ride off laughing.

  Well, that damn statue had to be his first concern. There could be no argument about that.

  “Can you nail that rider on your side?” Nash yelled at the doctor.

  “Not with this damn thing,” the medic shouted, shaking the woman’s cheap six-gun.

  Nash crawled over the girl and squeezed in beside Harlan, dragging his satchel along the seat behind him.

  “I’ve got to make a jump for it,” Nash said, nodding his head towards the satchel. “What they’re after is in here. If you can keep ’em busy on the other side while I take care of this hombre and then jump when we draw level with that brush, we might get away with it. Jack can slow down and let them overtake after I’ve had some time in the brush. I’ll gain more time while they check the sides of the trail.”

  “But you’ll be on foot,” the medic protested.

  “Can’t be helped. I know my way around the wilderness. I reckon I can make it. But don’t try to be a hero: tell ’em whatever they want to know, otherwise Dodd’ll start gettin’ nasty.”

  Nash suddenly brought up his Colt and laid the barrel across his left forearm. He beaded the rider swinging in, then dropped hammer. The Colt jumped and the rider’s mount crashed, throwing the man violently over its head. The man slammed onto the trail with a thud.

  Nash ducked as the coach was suddenly filled with streaking lead. The girl gasped, jerked and spun over onto her back. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open, as a hand clawed at a spreading patch of red between her breasts. He glanced briefly at Harlan and saw in the medic’s eyes that there was no hope for Lucy Briggs.

  There was a yell from up top and a body crashed past the window and thudded to the trail on Nash’s side. He looked out. Chip’s body was rolling and bouncing in the dust, lifeless. Jack was still sending the team thundering up the trail as Nash grabbed the satchel.

  “I’m droppin’ off. Too bad about the gal. Soon’s I’m gone, yell up to the driver. He’ll know what to do. And many thanks for sidin’ me, Harlan. Adios.”

  “Hasta luego,” the medic replied.

  Nash sobered. He doubted that they would see each other again.

  Then he unlatched the door and pushed it open. Brush hit the panels and almost tore it out of his hand. The greenery was a blur but he saw that it fell away in a steep slope. He was going to bounce badly on that flying ground but there was no other way.

  Taking a firmer grip on the satchel and holstering his smoking Colt, Nash kicked out against the floor and hurled himself away from the body of the coach. The door swung shut because of the forward motion and Harlan grabbed it to make sure it clicked solidly.

  Nash somersaulted in mid-air and landed on his back among the brush several feet from the coach. The dust boiling up from under the wheels was sufficient to screen him from the pursuing outlaws. The brush cracked and gave way beneath his weight. Branches ripped at his clothes and his flesh and he flung an arm across his face, but, too late, splintered twigs gashed his flesh and his hat spun away. His gunrig snagged on a thicker branch and he was brought up sharply, the belt almost cutting him in two. Then the wood snapped and he continued to plunge.

  His breath gusted from him as he hit solid ground and then the slope took over, bouncing him up and tilting him forward. He began to roll, crashing and smashing through brush that, even while it cushioned his fall, still tore and stabbed and prodded at his body. Some of the heavier branches acted as springs and flung him violently from one bush to another.

  And then the slope ended as he spilled off a dense clump of brush and saw rocks in an area that was more open. He knew that the cushioning was over. When he hit, he knew it would be hard.

  Nash was right. But he was lucky in one respect: he landed feet first. Even so, he hit with such force that his legs simply folded under him and his knees skidded among the gravel, tearing his trousers and flinging him face forward. His hands went out and he skidded, his palms being hacked up by the gravel. Then his jaw struck a rock a glancing blow and ligh
ts exploded behind his eyes as he felt his body wrenching and twisting violently.

  Nash rolled to a halt but it seemed a long time before his senses settled to an even keel. He pushed his raw palms against the ground and shook his head as he began to rise. A few spots of blood from a cut fell onto the stones between his hands. His jaw felt about twice its normal size and his vision was still a mite blurred.

  Gunfire filtered through his reeling senses and he snapped his head up to see the dust beginning to settle on the trail immediately above.

  He had to turn his head to the right for a long way before he picked up the stage. Jack must have been driving it like a maniac, for it was far along the trail and higher up the slope than Nash would have expected. He could see a couple of the raiders pursuing the coach as it rocked and swayed crazily around a bend. The outlaws thundered after it, still shooting.

  Nash staggered to his feet and looked about for the satchel. It was lying about five yards away. He stumbled towards it and stooped gingerly to pick it up, making sure his Colt was firm in its holster. He glanced up at the trail. Obviously, Dodd and his men hadn’t seen him drop off the stage. He wondered just how far Jack would lead them before slowing down and allowing them to overtake him.

  The gradually increasing grade would slow the stage, anyway, so he couldn’t bank on having too much time before the outlaws found out he was missing and started their search for him. Once they spotted those bushes with the broken branches, they would know where he had jumped.

  So he figured he had better get moving at once. Holding the satchel, he looked around and spotted some thick timber across a gulch. That was the obvious place for him to make for. He would have liked to have hidden out among the brush, hoping that Dodd would naturally ride straight for the stand of timber, but being afoot, he couldn’t risk it.

  No, it would have to be the woods. With a little luck, he ought to be able to outsmart them and might even be able to pick up a horse.

  Nash staggered down the remainder of the slope, his legs weak and rubbery under him.

  Seven – Wilderness Pursuit

  Moran figured if he didn’t get to a proper doctor within the next couple of days he might be past the point of ever needing one again.

  He had dropped a long way behind Dodd and the others during the raid on the stage, but he pushed on doggedly. He knew he had to be within sight of the coach when Dodd finally ran it to ground and grabbed the golden eagle from Nash. If he weren’t, he knew the others would cut him out of his share.

  There was no such thing as honor among thieves, Moran decided: leastways, not with Will Dodd’s bunch. They were all out for themselves. He recalled that none of them had wanted to give Griffin any kind of a bonus for his work in finding out about the decoy run that had ended in the massacre at High Hat. Sure, it had turned out to be wrong, but they hadn’t known that at the time Dodd had suggested the bonus for Griffin. Of course, Moran was as guilty as the others: he hadn’t voted on Griffin’s behalf, either. But, it just went to show what kind of men they were.

  He was feeling miserable because of his wound, and just a mite sorry for himself. The gash hadn’t seemed too serious when he had been gunned down by the guard, but it had soon shown signs of infection and had begun to weep pus as well as blood. He couldn’t seem to close it off. It was purple and reddened and there was a swelling under his left arm.

  Moran was so wrapped in his own condition that he didn’t realize his horse had slowed—or maybe he had slowed it down himself so that it eased some of the jarring pain. But he lifted his head suddenly and saw that the horse was only moving at walking pace. He became apprehensive and he looked around swiftly. The trail up ahead was empty. There was a suggestion of dust haze hanging in the air, but there was no sign of the stage or Dodd and the other outlaws. He glanced back and saw Dixie’s dead horse but there was no sign of the man himself. All he was aware of was the sound of distant gunfire up ahead and around a bend. Moran cursed. They must be closing with the stage, he thought. He had to get there and put in an appearance.

  He kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks and groaned aloud as the animal lurched forward and pain knifed through his body. He gripped the reins tighter and clamped his knees against the saddle as the horse settled to a steady trot. He rode past the spot where Nash had jumped from the coach, glancing at the brush with the broken branches but not thinking anything about it.

  But, before the horse had ridden another five yards or so, Moran hauled rein and the horse stopped and shook itself, snorting angrily at the stop-start instructions from its rider. Moran frowned and wiped the back of his hand across his sweating, dust-caked forehead.

  He stared back at the brush with the fresh-broken branches and twigs. It had filtered through his consciousness that it should be investigated. He turned the horse and walked it back slowly along the edge of the trail.

  Something had been thrown from the speeding stage, he figured. His heart lurched as he thought that he might even find the golden eagle in its container, but then he shook his head. The swathe was too wide for that. It was more like that made by a man’s hurtling body.

  Sitting his mount just above where the broken branches began, Moran could see the marks of the violent passage down to where the brush thinned out onto rock and earth. There was a hat caught up in a bush not far from the bottom and the sun glinted from a silver concha in the shape of a longhorn’s head on the plaited leather band.

  Forgetting his pain and fever, he ran his gaze over the area. Suddenly, rising excitement began to make him tremble. Yes! By hell, he could even see tracks in the dirt, where someone had slid into the gulch. His gaze travelled upwards and lifted over the far side of the gulch to where the thick stand of timber began.

  Moran grinned tightly.

  From his high position, he could see into the timber stand, where the edges were thinner. There was a man staggering through the trees, lugging a valise of some kind. Although he had never seen the man before, Moran knew it had to be Clay Nash.

  He slid the rifle from its saddle scabbard and, teeth bared against the expected jolting pain, he put the mount slowly down the slope, forcing a fresh path through the brush.

  Hell, with a little luck, while the rest of the bunch were still chasing the stage, he could nail Nash and pick up the golden statue for himself and be long gone before Dodd and the others realized it.

  It was sure an ill wind that blew nobody any good, he figured.

  Doc Harlan was still putting up a pretty good show, in spite of the cheap Colt. He reckoned he couldn’t hit a barn door at ten feet the way it threw lead around. But it made a noise and it was .45 caliber, so he had plenty of reloads for it that he could take from his bullet belt.

  He fired out alternate windows, sometimes two fast shots out the left hand one before throwing himself along the seat to blast another shot out the right hand one. It would, he hoped, make the pursuing outlaws figure that Nash was still aboard and shooting hard. The woman’s body rolled about on the floor of the stage and he was sorry that he had been unable to do anything for her.

  Despite the danger, Harlan was enjoying himself. He liked a good gunfight and plenty of excitement, which was why he had chosen to start frontier medicine among the mines of Colorado. It was a rough, tough life, and some of the miners had actually figured they were being ‘soft’ by allowing a medic to set their broken bones or to sew up their gashed flesh. He had had to bust a few heads before they respected him. Finally, they reasoned there was nothing wrong with letting a man who seemed as tough as they were attend them. But, during some arguments, some of the hardcase types wouldn’t let him near a man who had been gunshot.

  So, he had learned how to use a gun and had taken on some of the hard hombres at their own game, killing a couple, wounding others, but mainly showing that he could handle a Colt almost as expertly as he could a scalpel. From then on, he had been able to combine adventure and medicine, roving the frontier, and occasionally having to force hi
s ideas on a community that was too ignorant to see any benefit in his health education.

  He had never seen Nash before but had heard plenty about the man. There hadn’t been any time for the Wells Fargo agent to tell the medic the full story about the statue, but it was sufficient for Harlan to know that Dodd and his bunch were outlaws and killers and had to be held at bay while Nash made his escape. He was willing to go along with that and risk his neck.

  Then he heard a yell from up above and there was a sudden high-pitched squeal from the horses an instant before the stage seemed to slam into something as solid as a wall. It lifted then tilted and Harlan grabbed out for support as the whole stage began to roll and he knew they were going no farther.

  He didn't know that Dodd had brought down one of the lead horses and that the rest had floundered over its body and that the coach had crashed into the fallen pile of horseflesh. It rode up and over one thrashing animal before it tilted, throwing the driver twenty feet through the air. The stage bounced and rolled and skidded and wood splintered as it smashed into a rock.

  Dodd and Talman were the first to dismount; Talman was anxious about his sister’s safety. He swore when he ripped open the splintered door and saw her bloody body jammed between the seats. Harlan was sitting up, dazed, his head gashed and one arm twisted at an unnatural angle. He cried out in pain as Talman dragged him out bodily, then Talman turned a puzzled face to Dodd.

  “Ain’t no one in here but Lucy and this hombre. Nash’s gone!”

  Dodd rounded on Harlan and backhanded him across the face. The doctor fell to his knees and Dodd pushed his gun barrel against Harlan’s temple.

  “Where’s Nash?” he gritted.

  Harlan tried to make out he was too dazed to speak but Dodd was in no mood for playing games. He hit the man with the gun barrel and sent him sprawling full length in the dust.