Clay Nash 10

by Brett Waring

  Jim Hume, Chief of Detectives for Wells Fargo, had been on the first run. One of his main reasons being to see how Clay Nash was making out. He had told Nash to take his time recovering: there were other assignments, but he wanted Nash in top shape before he put him out into the field once more.

  Nash progressed well under the care of Mary Summers. By the end of the second week he was walking around the yard of the way-station without the aid of a stick. The wound had taken a deal out of him, but, thanks to Mary, infection had been kept to a minimum.

  The clear mountain air seemed to brace him with its crispness and fore touch of winter. Looking up at the distant peaks he could see the snow line gradually widening, creeping down the slopes as the days passed. He liked it in the foothills; a band of dark green rising into the bone-bare Rockies. He had to admit he liked being with Mary and old Jed, too; old friends, good friends, the best.

  It was good talking over old times in the evenings, even lending a hand with the stage change-overs when he was beginning to feel stronger. Mostly, though, Nash enjoyed the quiet walks down by the stream after supper, with the suggestion of a mist on the water and Mary beside him.

  On one of these walks, after he had been there for almost three weeks, and he had been taking short rides each day, he turned to Mary.

  “I think I’ll take me a long ride tomorrow, maybe up to Squaw Bluff.”

  “That’s a long way, Clay,” she said doubtfully.

  “Reckon I can make it. Side’s fine. I’m fine. I need to test myself, see how I take a few hours straight in the saddle.” He grinned suddenly. “And, if you were with me, I wouldn’t have to worry about maybe fallin’ off through weakness: you could bring one of your picnic baskets.”

  Mary smiled, too, but he could see the disappointment on her face.

  “I’d love to, Clay. But tomorrow’s a busy day. The stage comes through to Fire Springs as you know and we have two pre-booked passengers riding in to get aboard at the depot. They’re entitled to lunch so I’ll have to prepare that. And we’ll have the stage passengers to take care of as well. Tomorrow’s really a bad day for me.”

  “Okay, we’ll make it the day after. But I’ll take me a longish ride, anyway; kind of break myself in some. We’ll keep the picnic for Squaw Bluff till day after tomorrow—a date?”

  She clung to his arm and squeezed it as she nodded and, smiling, rested her head against his shoulder. She sounded sober when she spoke.

  “I guess this means you’ll be pushing along right soon, Clay?”

  “Yeah,” he said a mite heavily. “Jim was good enough about me takin’ my time to get well again, but I know he’s got a lot on the books. My job’s to track down road-agents, not have myself a good time like I been havin’.” He turned to Mary, his hands on her waist. “I’ll be blamed sorry to leave, Mary. But I promise I won’t let it go so long again before I come to see you. No matter what.”

  He leaned down and kissed her and her arms went eagerly around his neck.

  In the canyon, Chip Benedict’s bunch were ready. They gathered on their mounts at the far end and Benedict hipped in the saddle to run his eyes over each of them in turn.

  Dan Barrett, grim-faced and determined, his eyes blank; Walt Stern, dressed in store-bought claw hammer coat and whipcord trousers, toting a worn satchel in his guise as an en route passenger who would be boarding the stage and supposedly a travelling salesman; next to Stern was Lance Short, who lived up to his name and only topped the rule at five-six, dressed in range clothes: he was to be Stern’s co passenger, pre-booked, supposedly a cowboy from one of the ranches deeper in the ranges; on the other side of Barrett sat Cotton Matthews, and Jeff Doane, two hardcase gunfighters with long lists of ‘kills’ to their credit and men who looked exactly what they were: cold-eyed killers.

  Yeah, Chip Benedict allowed, he had himself a real hard bunch, the kind of men he needed to pull off a deal like this: two so-called ‘passengers’ to get the drop on the stage driver and shotgun guard while the rest rode in and took care of the way-station staff and passengers. It would be swift, violent action and ought to be over in a few minutes—and they would ride out thirty thousand dollars richer.

  “Okay you know your jobs,” he said finally. “Let’s get goin’. Walt, you come into the station from the north trail; Lance, you mosey in from the west. What you gonna say when they ask you why you pre-booked your passages in Fire Springs?”

  He looked at Stern first.

  “Hell, me bein’ a salesman for Montgomery Ward. I got me an on-goin’ ticket to lots of places. But I make my own way. When I was in Fire Springs recent, seein’ the storekeepers there, I booked on to Denver but knew I’d be tryin’ to do a mite of business with the trailside stores and little settlements up in the hills so, to save me ridin’ all the way back to Fire Springs, I figured I’d board the stage at Reddings.”

  Benedict nodded in approval. He flicked his eyes towards Lance Short.

  “Well, I been punchin’ cows up in the high country, gettin’ ’em down before the snows come. I been workin’ on a coupla different ranches and put the pay from one towards a ticket to Denver to go visit my old ma for the winter. I paid for it in Fire Springs before I blew the rest of my dinero on a wingding. Then, I took me a short chore of bronco bustin’ not far from Reddings, and rode in to board the stage at the way-station.”

  Benedict nodded again.

  “Sounds okay. Don’t think anyone’ll be botherin’ you about your reasons, but it might come up in normal conversation so it’s best to have a story ready. Only one I reckon you might have to watch is this Nash hombre who’s been around the station for a spell. He was wounded and the gal’s been doctorin’ him. He’s got a tough reputation so take him down first. If he’s still there—he might’ve moved along by now which’ll make it a helluva lot easier all round, I reckon.” He flicked his gaze to Dan Barrett. “You all right on this, Dan?”

  Barrett nodded soberly.

  “I know what to do. All I want is that five thousand. I’ll clear my mortgage, have a few thousand left over so’s I can really take care of my wife and kid. I don’t mind a little killin’ if that’s what it takes for me to get my hands on that dinero.”

  “Right. Then—let’s ride—”

  The canyon echoed to the clattering thunder of the horses’ hoofs as they rode through the pass and made their way into the foothills at the back of Reddings.

  Weather-wise, it was one of the best days Nash could recall as he rode the buckskin through the greenery of the foothills. The sun was brilliant, hard and white, throwing jet-black shadows that were so sharply defined they seemed to have been cut out with a knife. The pine needles glinted like metal; the snow was a blinding silver cap on the peaks; damp rocks sheened high up the slopes and eagles wheeled against the blue, occasionally shrilling.

  The air was crisp but not cold and he rode with his jerkin open, though he kept his woolen shirt buttoned to the throat. His left side was a lot easier: for over a week he had been exercising it and had put some strength back into the wall of muscle that had been ripped apart by Pardoe’s bullet.

  Lungs full of the bracing air, Clay felt ready for anything. The only thing that blunted the edge of his well-being was the thought that now he was fit again, he would have to pull out from Reddings by the end of the week. And that meant leaving Mary.

  This time, for some reason, it seemed harder to do.

  But he had to go back to detective duty, there was no dodging it, so he would make the break after they had their picnic the next day.

  Meanwhile, it was time for him to do some target practice. It was a shame to shatter the peace of the day, but he couldn’t afford to let his skill with firearms diminish, so he found himself an old draw behind Squaw Bluff and set up targets for both rifle and pistol and settled down to a morning’s shooting.

  The gunshots crashed and thundered and echoed around the draw, startling some wildlife, sending birds wheeling into the sky, screeching th
eir protests—and effectively preventing Nash from hearing the distant gunfire that erupted from the direction of the Reddings way-station.

  Walt Stern and Lance Short lounged on the porch of the way-station in the chairs provided by the company. Stern had his satchel open and was browsing through some papers but Short’s hat was tilted over his eyes and his hands were clasped in his lap as he apparently dozed.

  Suddenly, both men stiffened at the distant sound of horses coming along the trail through the Rockies. There was a faint ‘Yaa-haah!’ and the thin crack of a whip. As the minutes dragged by, the clink of harness chains and the rumble of the coach wheels could be heard. Stern looked up then and Jed Summers appeared in the doorway beside him, puffing on his pipe. He pulled out the battered silver Wells Fargo watch and grunted as he checked the time.

  “Runnin’ a mite early for a change,” he said but he did not glance at Stern or Short. He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “How’s the lunch, Mary? Buck’s early.”

  “It’ll be ready by the time he gets here,” Mary called back from the big kitchen. “I’ll stoke-up and get the potatoes browned.”

  Stern folded his papers and shuffled them into some kind of order before slipping them back into the satchel. Short yawned and sat up slowly, thumbing his hat back off his narrow face. He scrubbed a hand over his bristled chin. He sniffed.

  “Man, that cookin’ smells right good,” he said.

  “Yeah. Mary’s a good cook,” Jed said. “Better than your hash slingers put on the foothill outfits, I’ll bet.”

  “I’ll bet, too,” Short agreed. “Last one we had was the worst grub spoiler I’ve met in thirty years. Couldn’t even toast cornpone without reducin’ it to a pile of charcoal.” He looked levelly at Stern. “Be good to get a decent meal under your belt before movin’ on to other chores, eh, drummer?”

  Stern frowned.

  “Well—yeah, I suppose so.”

  Short stood, still staring down at Stern.

  “Yeah. Well, me, I’m gonna get me a place at the table and put away a coupla big helpin’s of that roast beef and potatoes ’fore I do anythin’ else. You with me, drummer?”

  Stern nodded slowly, getting Short’s message: the man, though small, had a voracious appetite and he wanted to eat the meal that smelled so appetizing, before moving on to the business of taking the payroll. In any case, the stage was early and eating lunch first would give Benedict and the others time to get into their positions.

  But it took a cold-blooded killer to sit down to a heavy meal like Mary set on the plank table before them, knowing they were going to commit murder right after eating.

  They waded through two helpings each as well as fresh corn bread and coffee, surrounded by the chattering passengers and the stage driver. The shotgun guard kept his Ithaca twelve-gauge beside him at the end of the form where he had positioned himself so that he could look out the doorway and see the stage in the yard while the roustabouts changed the mule teams. The strongbox was under the driver’s seat and the guard was ready to snatch up that gun and challenge anyone who might go near it.

  Stern looked over the rim of his coffee cup at Short and the small outlaw nodded slowly, reaching into his lap for his napkin to wipe his greasy mouth and chin. But, instead of grabbing the napkin, he slid his Colt out of its holster, aimed the barrel under the table at the belly of the eating shotgun guard and thumbed back the hammer.

  The guard snapped his head up at the soft click, almost lost amid the chatter and the clattering of cutlery, but still discernible to experienced ears.

  Short smiled at him—then shot him in the belly.

  The guard went over backwards, taking his chair with him. Women screamed and men jumped. Then Stern put his Colt barrel against the head of the driver beside him and pulled the trigger. The man’s brains sprayed over the table as he toppled from the form.

  There was utter chaos and panic in the room as the two killers jumped up, guns swinging around to cover the passengers. There was a cowboy among them and he went for his gun. Short shot him through the chest. A pudgy banker-type reached for a Derringer hideaway and Stern put two bullets into him. Jed Summers, coming through from the kitchen swiftly summed up the situation and dived back into the big room, slamming the heavy door and dropping the latch. He leaned his weight against it and yelled at the white-faced Mary to drag across the heavy deal worktable. They got it under the latch as the door shuddered from the other side. There was a series of explosions and great fist sized splinters crashed through the door.

  Mary gasped as the jagged wood caught her across the face. Jed dragged her down, then leapt for the Winchester on the wooden pegs above the wood range, levering a shell into the breech.

  “Get out into the yard,” he bawled at his daughter and sobbing, Mary staggered for the back door.

  She wrenched it open and stumbled outside. Jed put three shots into the door, but spun at the sound of gunfire behind him. He turned in time to see Mary collapse on the rear door stoop. Jaw sagging in disbelief, he got to his feet and made his way across the kitchen towards her. Gunshots sounded in the big dining room. He ignored it as he knelt beside his daughter, staring anxiously at the blood on the front of her dress. She was looking up at him with pain-filled eyes.

  Then he snapped up his head at a sound in the yard as a horseman came racing to the door, gun in hand, blazing shot after shot. Wood was chewed from the doorpost and Jed shuddered as a bullet hit him. He fired instinctively but saw that he had missed an instant before Dan Barrett pumped two more shots into him.

  Dan Barrett wheeled his mount as the old man fell across Mary’s body, fired into Jed once again, then raced to the front of the station where the roustabouts were making a stand at the corrals.

  Benedict had already shot the lead mules that had been hitched to the stage and the others were braying and bucking in the harness, adding to the din. Three of the station’s roustabouts had Colt revolvers, and were gathered behind the stone horse trough, shooting at the fast-riding outlaws.

  Stern and Short came out of the main building, reloading their pistols. The roustabouts turned their fire on them and Short staggered as a bullet clipped his left shoulder. Stern dropped and rolled behind the porch rail, triggering.

  Benedict and Doane raced their mounts around the corrals and poured their fire into the roustabouts from that angle. Dan Barrett ran his mount in and started shooting. There were too many sides for the roustabouts to watch. One man reared up, clawing at a face that streamed blood. His body jerked as four more bullets slammed into him. He fell, clutching at one of the older roustabouts. Startled, the man began to get to his feet, but Benedict cut him down with a shot between the eyes. A third man panicked and made a dash into the corral towards the frightened horses.

  He only got three or four steps from the trough before Jeff Doane blew him to shreds with his shotgun.

  Suddenly, there was silence over the way-station, broken only by the occasional braying of a terrified mule or the whicker of a horse. From inside the main buildings, there was a moan of pain.

  Benedict spun in the saddle.

  “That someone still alive?” he bawled.

  Dan Barrett had already dismounted and he was on the stoop as Stern tended to Short’s wound. He went into the building with his gun drawn. A moment later there was a shot. He came to the doorway and looked at Benedict.

  “No,” he said, simply, in answer to the outlaw’s question, then turned back into the room. Next time he came out, he was holding a bloodstained lace purse and some jewelry that had belonged to the two women passengers. He held up a locket on a gold chain. It was heart-shaped, engraved with a flower design, and set with a single emerald.

  “Anyone object if I keep this for my wife?”

  No one did. He opened the purse and counted out a hundred dollars in notes and change, brought out a small embroidered sewing kit. There was a faint smudge of blood on one corner but it was otherwise unmarked.

  �
��Crissy, my daughter, would sure go for this—she loves sewin’ her doll’s clothes.”

  No one paid him any attention so he put the kit into his pocket with the locket. The others were going through the pockets of the roustabouts and, later, searched the passengers and Jed Summers.

  Benedict sat on the green strongbox taken from the stage coach. The others gathered around and stared at the heavy brass padlock.

  “Gonna take more than a shot or two to jar that loose,” Benedict said. “We might have to bust it open with half a stick of dynamite.”

  “Bit dangerous, ain’t it?” asked Barrett. “Won’t it burn up the dinero inside?”

  Benedict shook his head.

  “Not if it’s done right.” He grinned crookedly. “And I know how to do it right. Gimme a hand to unshackle one of them mules and we’ll tote the box back to the hideout.” He planted a boot on the ironbound box. “You did good, men. Real good. Not one witness.”

  “We gonna burn the place?” Barrett asked.

  Benedict shook his head.

  “Nope. Thought on it, but the smoke’ll be seen for miles. Might bring someone. Ain’t another stage due for three days. Give us a nice time to get away. Let’s get goin’.”

  They stripped the way-station of everything valuable, hitched the heavy strongbox to a mule, then headed towards the foothills—leaving the dead scattered around for the buzzards that were already wheeling high in the hot blue sky.