by Brett Waring
Suddenly, a hail of lead buzzed around Nash again but he pressed flat and kept shooting, his bullets missing by a hair and bringing cusses to his razor-thin lips. He hit another man, Talman, but he got to his feet, clawing at his thigh and made a wild lunge for a fallen tree, diving headlong behind it just as Nash’s bullet chewed up a handful of bark.
Outlaw bullets tore at his rocks, showering him with dust, chips of stone, and flakes of ancient lichen. One shot struck the lip of the flat rock and he reared back, clawing at his eyes as stones cut into his face, drawing blood.
Shaking his head, he snatched up the rifle again, saw a man trying to run up the slope. Nash fired two swift shots—then the hammer fell on an empty breech and he knew he had used up his ten rounds. His lead took the man’s hat and sent it spinning. The second shot smashed the rifle from the outlaw’s hand and Nash swore again; every goddamn shot was that close.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t worry. He knew he was shooting well enough at running, leaping targets in this kind of light, but he needed bull’s-eyes, not near-misses. He flung the rifle aside and dragged out his six-gun, knowing he had lost his advantage. The clearing hadn’t been large enough to trap the outlaws in the open as he had wanted. They had been able to find too much cover.
They had his position and the survivors were pouring lead to make him keep his head down, which he did as the bullets ricocheted from rock to rock and blinded him with the dust of their passing. He knew that while he was flattened, the outlaws would be making their way up the slope not necessarily right in front of him, but maybe to the sides, in an effort to get on his same level.
When a bullet seared across his shoulders from the left, he knew one of them had made it. He spun onto his back and fired across his body at a vague shape as the man dodged back behind a tree thirty yards along the ridge. Suddenly, he knew if he stayed where he was, they were going to nail him.
Nash pushed back off his slab, holding his fire to conserve his last few bullets. He bounded upright as he reached the rocks and leapt for his mount, hand slapping at the reins and jerking the ends free from beneath the stone he had used to weight them. The horse whinnied once as he turned it and jammed home his heels.
It leapt forward, dodging between the rocks as bullets whipped past his head from the rifleman on the crest of the ridge. He didn’t know it was Will Dodd as he recklessly put the mount down slope, weaving from side to side. He spotted the man running out of the trees and dropping to one knee, and snapped a shot at him. The bullet kicked up dirt and grass just in front of Dodd and he threw himself back instinctively, his rifle exploding into the air. But he righted himself with a savage curse and thrust off his left hand and threw the rifle to his shoulder again. He triggered two fast shots at the fleeing Nash as the man literally threw his mount down the slope of the mountain.
The lead whistled past and one of the bullets snapped several branches off brush ahead of Nash. He wheeled aside and ran the wild-eyed mount across the face of the slope. He glanced behind and saw other outlaws coming over the ridge.
Nash knew he wasn’t going to make it into the heavy timber. It was too far.
Dodd was reloading his rifle frantically and yelling to his men to bring Nash down, to shoot the bronc out from under him. He didn’t want to let him reach the thick timber where he could well elude them.
The guns hammered and Nash figured the best thing he could do was to take one more chance and set the mount straight down the mountainside towards the thick trees. It was a dangerous maneuver, not only because he wouldn’t be weaving about and so would present a steadier target for the outlaws, but also because the horse could easily stumble and throw him. But zigzagging through the thinner timber was losing him time and keeping him away from cover that he needed badly.
Nash hipped in the saddle and fired a shot up-slope, then wrenched the fleeing horse’s head around and plunged straight down the steep slope. His move confused the outlaws but Dodd quickly recovered and knelt behind a fallen tree, rested his rifle barrel across it and took careful aim. The others were shooting as fast as they could work their levers and triggers, but Dodd took his time and squeezed off his shot gently.
He stood up swiftly, teeth baring in a grin as he saw Nash’s mount stagger, its rump going down into the hillside as its rear legs buckled. A moment later its front legs collapsed and Nash sailed over the animal’s head to crash heavily onto the slope. The outlaw leader saw the man’s gun fly out of his hand and then Nash was skidding and somersaulting out of control, bouncing and thrashing as he spun down the steep grade, pursued by the rolling body of the horse.
Nash had his arms over his head, catching blurred, spinning glimpses of the huge animal as it came thundering towards him. He finally managed to get his legs against a boulder and thrust to one side as it somersaulted and crashed within inches of his body. Even so, the rear legs struck him across the shoulders and shot him off at a tangent, his head ringing.
He smashed into a bush then shot through it, his fingers scrabbling for a hold, then ripping the brush out of the ground. His momentum carried him into the trees and he had a fuzzy impression of trunks racing past only a hair’s-breadth away from his face and then he hit a rock, bounced painfully into the air and saw the bark of a mountain mahogany in all its detail for an instant before he smashed into it with stunning force and fell to the ground.
His body was half draped around the base of the tree as consciousness slipped away from him.
Nine – Guerrilla Warfare
Up on the ridge, Dodd smiled crookedly. He could have finished Nash with that shot but he figured it would be better to blow the man’s horse out from under him. He would then have the Wells Fargo man to toy with.
He looked around at his panting men through the gunsmoke that shrouded the area where they stood.
“Get the horses. He ain’t goin’ nowhere after hittin’ that tree like that. And his satchel’s on that hoss.”
The mount had come to rest in the thick timber, too, but at the edge, its carcass partially shielding Nash’s still form at the base of the tree. Dodd was whistling softly as he went back over the ridge with his men. They rounded up the horses and Dodd saw that his mount was still bleeding badly from the bullet that had seared across its neck. He had neither the time nor inclination to doctor the wound and took off his saddle-rig and flung it over the back of Dixie’s horse. The animal didn’t like it, but Dodd kicked it in the ribs and wrenched the cinch strap tight. He swore at it as he stepped up into leather and glanced briefly at Dixie’s body down the slope. Then he led his men back up towards the ridge.
Just to be on the safe side, he sent Griffin to search the rocks where Nash had lain in ambush. There was a remote possibility that the man might’ve hidden the statue somewhere.
Griffin came back in a few minutes shaking his head.
“No sign of where he could’ve dug a hole and the rocks are either too big to move, or too small to cover it. Nope, he didn’t leave it there, Will.”
“Then let’s go get it,” Dodd said and spurred his mount down the slope towards the carcass of Nash’s horse.
They rode in single file, in a slow zigzag across the face of the slope and worked their way carefully down towards the edge of the heavy timber, where Nash’s huddled body was just visible. But Hackleback spotted the satchel across the face of the mountain and the outlaws all turned in that direction as the man spurred his mount. He leapt from the saddle while his mount was still running and picked up the battered and scuffed leather bag.
Dodd jumped from his horse and snatched it from his hand.
“It’s locked,” Hackleback panted.
“Not for long,” Dodd gritted as the others gathered around. He knelt with the satchel between his knees and took out his hunting knife. He used the point to hack and lever at the brass lock but found it more difficult than he had figured. However, the knife blade was strong and the brass hasp snapped free of the plate and he hurriedly threw back the satchel
flap. He tipped it up and the papers inside spewed out, scattering on the ground.
But the central compartment remained locked and he grinned tightly at the others as he shook the satchel and they could all hear the movement of something heavy inside. He set it down again and went to work on the lock with the knife. But this time, the point of the knife only penetrated the thin covering of leather and then skidded off the reinforcing metal beneath.
Dodd swore and hammered with the hilt on the walls of the compartment. They all sounded metallic.
“Damn it! It’s lined with steel,” he snarled.
“Shoot the bastard off,” suggested Talman. Dodd nodded and drew his six-gun. They stood back as he placed the muzzle against the lock at the top of the compartment and dropped hammer. The satchel spun away and when Hackleback handed it over to him, Dodd grinned: the lock was mangled metal.
“Well, I guess Wells Fargo ain’t never gonna live this down,” he chuckled as he wrenched the buckled metal plates apart and turned the satchel upside down.
The creek rock fell at his feet and the smiles abruptly dropped from the faces of the expectant outlaws.
“Judas Priest!” Dodd snarled, picking up the stone and hurling it savagely away. He lunged upright, trembling. “By hell, I’ll pull his teeth out one by one for this. He’s tryin’ to make us look like fools. Let’s get that hombre roastin’ over a fire. By the time I’m through with him, he’ll be pleadin’ with me to let him tell me where he’s hid that eagle.”
They mounted and ran their horses recklessly down the slope and into the edge of the thick timber.
But when they reached the tree they found no sign of Nash, only a few spots of blood on the bark and a few coins that had spilled out of Nash’s pocket on impact.
“Spread out,” roared Dodd, sweeping an arm around wildly. “Spread out and bring me that bastard by sundown,” he screamed, letting go uncaringly. “Find him. He can’t be far.”
The four outlaws spread out and rode into the heavy stand of timber, eyes and ears alert, knowing Nash couldn’t have moved very far into the deep-shadowed trees.
And they were all glad they weren’t in the Wells Fargo man’s shoes. For when he was found, only bloody torture and screaming death awaited him.
Clay Nash felt as if he were going to topple over and stay down next time around. He had lost count of the number of times he had fallen and thrust upright again, stumbling on through the timber, glad that the shadows had deepened.
His left arm was not much use to him though he didn’t think anything was broken. He had examined it on the run—or the stagger, he thought with grim humor—but, though it was swollen and hurt like hell at the shoulder and elbow joints, the bones seemed to be intact. He must have had it jammed between the tree and his body when he had struck.
Just as well, too, he figured. If he hadn’t, likely he would have suffered cracked ribs and maybe a splintered bone would have penetrated a lung or some other essential organ. Despite his present condition, which was not too good to say the least, he figured he had been lucky. He was without ammunition or hat or food or water, but he was still able to run.
If Dodd and his men had moved on him at once, they would have him prisoner now—or he could be dead. But Dodd had gone back for the mounts, supremely confident that he had the Wells Fargo operative cold-decked. Then they had stopped at the satchel—
If he could keep on the run, dodging the searching outlaws for another hour he would be safe. Once night closed in he could make his way through the timber, and down to the foot of the mountain. But then he would have to face the badlands.
There was little cover out there and he couldn’t hope to make it across the way he was. No, he would have to make a stand in the Arrowheads. There was no choice in the matter. It would be suicide for him to attempt to cross the badlands on foot, without food or water or even a weapon to protect himself. All he had was a stag-handled clasp knife in his pocket.
In the timber of the hills, even that could be put to his advantage, but it would be mighty hard to use it productively out there in the wasteland. Not to say that a clasp knife wasn’t a useful tool to have for survival in the desert, for Nash had managed to pull through on at least one occasion with only such a weapon, but then he had had time to search for water and food such as was offered by the harsh environment.
There were not a lot of leaves or twigs on the ground so he was able to move silently. He saw and heard the outlaws in their search, but because of the noise they made he was able to keep track of them and go to ground when they drew close. Once, Will Dodd rode past his hiding place so close that Nash could have reached out and plucked the man from the saddle.
He used the brush growing between the trees and the rocks, and the deep, purple-black shadows cast by the trees themselves. Twice he went up into the branches of trees and lay among the foliage while the outlaws rode past beneath. On the second occasion, they had stopped to palaver and twist up cigarettes and the odor of the tobacco had awakened a craving in him which he was still having trouble putting down.
When they had ridden on, he had crossed to the next tree. The timber was so thick here that branches intertwined and he was able to make his way down the slope for several yards before having to climb down.
By then, he could hear the outlaws scattered across the slopes, calling out to each other. Darkness was falling as if someone were lowering a blind.
“Where we gonna meet up, Will?” someone yelled.
“Yeah—we lost him for the night, Will,” another voice called.
“Keep lookin’ till you can’t see your hand in front of your face,” Will Dodd roared in reply.
“Hell, we won’t even be able to find ourselves by then,” an outlaw protested.
“I’ll light a fire and you can all come in,” Dodd yelled and Nash could tell by the sounds of his voice that he was savagely angry at not having had success in his search. “I want Nash found. And taken alive.”
The Wells Fargo man smiled tightly. Dodd wanted to know where the eagle was, of course. And he knew he could look forward to torture and pain if Dodd ever caught him.
The thing was to stay uncaught, and not only that, but, if possible, to whittle down the odds.
That night he would be fine. He had taken bearings earlier on a pile of rocks that had a natural overhang that would furnish him with shelter. There was moss growing underneath the rocks so he would have water—moisture, leastways. Nuts on some of the bushes would furnish food. Elderberry, chokecherry, cottonwood trees, all could give him enough food to sustain him.
But, come daylight, that was when the real danger would begin.
Dodd would keep an eye on the badlands but he would also know that Nash would have long since decided about making a crossing on foot. The outlaw would know Nash was still on the mountain and his men would scour and beat the brush and trees until they drove the Wells Fargo man out.
There were four of them and he had to start paring away at those odds. Nash made his way down to his shelter among the rocks and while he hacked some damp moss free and crammed it into his mouth, sucking the moisture from it, he began to figure out just how he could start killing off the outlaws.
In the darkness he looked down at the faint glint of the clasp knife in his hand.
It was all he had to work with, so it would have to do the job for him. Somehow.
Carl Olsen was a Swede and most folk called him simply, ‘Swede’. He was a big man and though the iron had gone from his muscles with the encroaching years, even now, in his mid-fifties, he would outwork most of the young Indian bucks who did the chores around the way-station.
Of course, they weren’t there to make a career out of working for Wells Fargo; the bucks came down from the hills or the reservations, if they had a pass and departmental approval, just to get a few dollars together for some specific purpose. One might want to buy a new saddle for his horse; another might want seeds or agricultural tools; a couple might even want g
ood guns. For they were all learning that the white man had many things that made life easier than the old traditional methods.
Still, Swede Olsen treated them fairly and he paid them by the hour. If he didn’t think they had done enough for their money, he said so and only occasionally did he have to slam down a cocky young buck with his big knotted fists. Most went along with his estimate of what constituted a fair day’s work.
Apart from the Indians and an occasional Mexican wandering that far north of the Rio, there was only a fat French woman from New Orleans for a cook at the way-station by way of permanent company. Swede yarned with the stage driver and the passengers when they passed through, but these were only brief encounters and mostly it was shop talk or a discussion on the weather, or the condition of the trail ahead.
So Swede turned to his books. Long ago he had taught himself to read, with the help of a Norwegian mate on the windjammer he had stowed away on years earlier. Books comforted Swede in his loneliness as agent at the remote way-station on the edge of the badlands running around the base of the Arrowhead Hills.
He often read well into the early hours of the morning until his eyes ran with water from the strain in the dim yellow light cast by the oil lamps.
It was one of those times when he was sitting up late. There had been a stage through two days earlier, running south, and it had brought him some books from Santa Fe. Catalogues, agricultural manuals, stockmen’s products’ lists, some old newspapers, months out of date, and a ragged copy of Charles Dickens’ “Pickwick Papers.” It was this that kept him up so late as he avidly devoured the tale, glorying in the feel of such a thick book and in its fine print. He figured he would have a few nights’ comfort out of this work.
