Clay Nash 10

by Brett Waring

  “Well, could be.”

  She frowned.

  “And the clasp on that beautiful purse—”

  “Wait’ll you see what’s in the pocket of it. I ain’t sprung that on you yet.”

  She felt her knees tremble as she slowly drew out the gold heart-shaped locket featuring the emerald. Her voice quavered with apprehension.

  “Oh, Dan. Is—is everything—all—right? I mean—what’s this on the corner of Crissy’s sewing kit? This dark stain? Why, it looks almost like—blood.”

  Her lower lip began to tremble as she stared levelly at her husband but he spun on his heel to meet the little girl as she came bounding in, clasping the new doll she had discovered in his saddlebag. He caught her in his arms, laughing as he swung her about.

  Eadie watched, but, strangely, felt the happiness slowly draining from her to be replaced by a gnawing fear.

  The Benedict bunch scattered after the divvying-up of the money. Chip Benedict went west, aiming to look up some old friends Utah way. Doane and Cotton Matthews went north where Matthews had kinfolk. Walt Stern rode south to the railroad where he boarded a train to Wagonmound—and a girl called Lulu.

  There was law in Wagonmound. The sheriff’s name was Cordell, a young badge-toter with a fast gun who had sent several outlaws to their permanent resting places on Boothill. He was alert, had a photographic memory for faces and it took him only about half-a-day to figure out who Walt Stern really was.

  The outlaw was in Lulu’s room, upstairs at the rear of the local saloon. Cordell posted a deputy at the outside stairway—but the man stumbled into a pile of crates, sending them down the steps. The noise attracted Stern who was getting dressed. He glanced briefly at the girl on the rumpled bed as he snatched his gun from the rig hanging on the bedpost.

  He flattened against the wall beside the window and looked down into the alley in time to see the deputy ducking for cover behind a more stable stack of boxes.

  “Goddamn law,” Stern muttered, wheeling on the girl. “You tryin’ for the bounty?”

  Lulu paled, coming wide awake.

  “God, no, Walt. Not me. Hell, I’ve waited for you this long, I—”

  He whirled as Cordell hammered on the door with a gun butt.

  “Come on out, Stern. Place is covered. You can’t get away. Don’t start any shootin’ ’cause—”

  Stern blasted three shots through the door and the girl screamed. Beyond the door, she heard a sob of pain and then the sound of a body falling. Stern snatched his hat and gunrig and hurled a chair through the window. He snapped a shot at the deputy in the alley as the man ducked behind his boxes. Stern gave the girl a bitter look and lifted the gun. She screamed and dived to get off the bed as he triggered. The lead caught her under the shoulder blade and flung her violently against the wall.

  Then Stern dropped into the alley and sprawled as the deputy opened up with his rifle. The outlaw rolled against the saloon wall, saw the deputy’s legs between the slats of the crates and triggered. The lawman screamed as the bullet broke his shinbone and he collapsed in agony.

  Walt Stern leapt up, and ran for the rear of the alley where he had left his saddled horse. He vaulted into the saddle and spun the mount, kicking into its flanks with his heels. He slid the rifle out of the scabbard and started shooting the moment he galloped into the street.

  Folk attracted by the shooting ran for cover as lead started flying. Glass shattered. A bullet ricocheted then clanged against a hanging iron pot outside the hardware store. Women and children screamed and men ran desperately to get out of his way.

  He cleared town in a cloud of dust, still shooting and making onlookers keep their heads down.

  Just after sundown on the same day, Clay Nash arrived in Wagonmound. He passed the fresh wooden marker on Boothill that stood above the grave of Sheriff Cordell and rode along the dimly-lit main street until he found the doctor’s shingle.

  Making himself known, Nash asked to see the deputy and the wounded whore, Lulu.

  “She’s pretty low,” the doctor told him. “Lead went in under the shoulder blade and came out in front. Hell of a hole. She might make it—then, again, she might not. Either way, I wouldn’t want her too upset: she needs rest. If she’s gonna die, I want her to go peaceable. Lulu never caused no harm in this town and that killer had no call to shoot her.”

  “Lemme talk with her and I’ll make sure he never shoots anyone else,” Nash said grimly.

  The doctor took him to the deputy first but the man could tell the Wells Fargo operative nothing, apart from the fact that Stern had headed south-east out of town which may or may not have meant anything.

  The girl was in shock and only semi-conscious, but after some gentle calling of her name by Nash, she opened her dark eyes and stared at the ceiling.

  “W-Walt?” She whispered the name so quietly that Nash had to place his ear against her lips to hear.

  “No, ma’am. Clay Nash from Wells Fargo—Walt Stern tried to kill you. Figured you’d turned him in for the bounty, as I hear it.”

  Her face tightened and for a brief moment, even through the pain, Lulu’s eyes blazed with a deep spark of anger at the memory.

  “S-s-s-ssssonofa bitch—” she slurred. “I n-never—”

  “Sure, take it easy. You know where he might’ve been headed?”

  She moved her head once from side to side.

  Nash held down his impatience and kept his voice deliberately low.

  “He was with you for half-a-day. He must’ve said somethin’ about his plans. Where he aimed to go next. What he was gonna do. He’d know he couldn’t stick around town long before the law got onto him. Guess Cordell spotted him a mite faster than he expected.”

  While he was talking, Nash saw that the girl was thinking. She grimaced a few times through the pain that wracked her and her breathing was ragged and harsh. But there was some life showing in her eyes and he figured that maybe the anger she felt at Walt Stern was actually doing her some good; putting some fire back into her weakened system.

  “I’ve been chasin’ him for a spell, ma’am,” Nash added. “You see, he shot my gal, too. Only she never pulled through. No, I ain’t lying to you. You’ve heard about the massacre out at the Reddings way-station. Stern was part of it. So was Lance Short. Soon as we got word Stern had cut loose down here, I jumped a train right away. You gotta help me get him, Lulu.”

  She didn’t respond and the doctor placed a hand on Nash’s shoulder. He jerked his head towards the door. The Wells Fargo man sighed heavily in disappointment and stood.

  “Okay, Doc. I’ll leave her be. I’ll stick around town a little, overnight, anyway. Maybe she’ll be better come mornin’.”

  And she was; the doctor claimed he didn’t know what had worked the miracle, but Lulu was markedly improved when Nash was shown into her room. She was still pale and weak and had trouble with her breathing, but she looked more alert and he saw recognition in her eyes. “Walt was goin’ to a place called Alamosa.”

  “South Colorado?” Nash asked quickly. “That Alamosa?”

  She frowned.

  “Only one I know.”

  “There’s another in Texas.”

  “It’d be Colorado, I reckon,” she rasped. She was silent for a spell, then added: “His father’s there and he aimed to call on him.”

  “Which trail?”

  “Said he was goin’ over the range, the Rattlesnake Hills. He knows them well.”

  Nash’s lips moved in a thin, cold smile.

  “So do I. Much obliged, Lulu. You can have the bounty on him after I nail him. I’ll see it’s sent to you.”

  “I don’t want—” she started and then sagged back on the bed, her mouth grim. “Yeah. Why the hell not? He shot me because he figured I was after it and I wasn’t. Yeah, amigo, you send me the reward—if you get him.”

  “I will,” Nash said confidently, but without boasting. “Gracias again. Adios.”

  He was on the trail ten minu
tes later, riding a long-legged, long-muscled sorrel he had bought at the livery; the stableman’s own personal mount. He hadn’t wanted to sell but Nash had persuaded him and given him a note on Wells Fargo. The horse had both stamina and speed and the stableman had guaranteed that the sorrel would easily out-run the black he had sold Stern the previous day.

  Nash made good time to the Rattlesnake Hills but he was forced to slow up while he searched for tracks. He kept to the draws and arroyos, figuring that Stern would do the same in an effort to throw pursuit—a pursuit that had never eventuated until now. No one from Wagonmound had wanted to form a posse to chase the killer.

  Stern had grown a mite careless once he had realized there was no band of armed men on his back trail. For while it took Nash several hours to follow the almost obliterated sign through the foothills, once he was in the high country, Stern took the easiest route and made no attempt to cover his tracks.

  Nash also took it easy, sticking to whatever cover he could find, aware that Stern was somewhere above him.

  It was close to sundown when he caught his first glimpse of Walt Stern. The killer was down in a draw beside a waterhole, gathering wood for a campfire. Obviously he felt secure. Nash dismounted among some brush that screened him and led the sorrel warily down the trail.

  It was only pure luck that he was already this close to Stern. If the man hadn’t panicked in Wagonmound, he might’ve got away and the girl would never have talked against him. His big mistake had been in shooting her—or maybe even in going to the town to see her at all.

  Clay Nash was thankful that Stern had made the mistake. He fairly itched to get his hands on the man.

  It wasn’t to be. Not at once at least.

  The sorrel almost stepped on one of the snakes that the hills were named after and before Nash could do anything about it, the horse reared up with a wild whinny and jerked him off his feet. He found himself close to the angry reptile and could almost sense that the snake was changing the direction of its strike. He rolled as the head missed his face by inches. He smashed at the snake with his gun butt, pulping the head, but the damage was already done: the horse’s whinny of terror had alerted Stern.

  He abandoned his gear, leapt into the saddle and urged his mount forward and away while he still hung across its back. By the time he was galloping out of the far end of the draw, he was settling properly into leather.

  Nash mounted his sorrel and spurred it into the draw, then changed his mind and put it across the face of the slope as he saw Stern angling into high country. It was Stern’s mistake. He should have continued on the descent once he had cleared the draw. His black was tired and the grade slowed it noticeably. Nash’s sorrel drew closer, and Stern snatched his gun and fired at him.

  Nash jumped the sorrel behind a boulder, unshipping the Winchester. He rode out on the far side of the boulder and saw that Stern had decided to make a run downhill. Too late, Nash thought triumphantly and threw the carbine to his shoulder, drawing a swift bead. He didn’t aim for the man; he wanted him to talk. He shot the horse and Stern sailed over its head, hit the slope and rolled and skidded.

  By the time he got to his feet, six-gun lost in the fall, Nash was riding downslope fast, his Winchester leveled. Stern took one look and dived into the brush. Nash fired, aiming high, hearing the lead rattle through the dry branches. He swore as he heard Stern crashing through the brush and jumped the horse into the thicket. He stood in the stirrups, caught a glimpse of the fleeing outlaw and sent another bullet over Stern’s head. The killer staggered on, ignoring the branches that whipped into his face, intent only on escaping his relentless pursuer. Then, beyond the thicket which suddenly thinned and began to peter out, Nash saw the cliff and he slowed the sorrel, easing back in the saddle.

  Stern had nowhere to go.

  When Nash rode out of the brush, Stern was crouched and waiting with a fallen limb from a pine tree. He leapt up at Nash and the limb struck the carbine from his grasp. He reeled in the saddle and the sorrel jumped in fright, the actions combining to spill him out of leather. He rolled away from the stamping hoofs of the whickering mount as Stern dodged around, trying to get a swing at him with the limb. It thudded into the turf only inches from his head. Nash spun away and kicked out with his boots, knocking Stern’s legs from under him.

  As the killer crashed to the ground, Nash flung himself onto the hand that held the tree limb, smashed the knuckles against a rock until Stern released his grip. The outlaw ripped up a clump of grass and smashed it into Nash’s face. The Wells Fargo man reeled and Stern scrambled up, drove his head into his chest and kicked out at his body. Nash took the blow in the ribs. The breath gusted from him as he spun away. Stern stomped a boot down at his face. Nash rolled and bounced to his hands and knees, jerked his head aside as a kick just grazed his jaw. He lost balance and leaned backwards, all his weight on one arm. Stern snarled and groped for his tree limb, aiming to smash Nash’s skull in.

  The Wells Fargo man clawed his fingers into the earth, grabbed a handful and hurled it into Stern’s face as the man towered above him, club raised. Stern tried to dodge and staggered. Nash wrapped his arms about the man’s legs above the knees, clamped them tightly and suddenly heaved to his feet with a roar, lifting the startled killer and throwing him over his shoulder.

  Stern crashed heavily to the ground and Nash spun to face him, leapt after him and caught him near the edge of the cliff. He reached down, grabbed the dazed man’s shirtfront and hauled him half erect. His fists smashed into Stern’s face and the cloth ripped free of Nash’s fingers. Stern’s nose was all mashed and bloody and he blinked, dazed, slow to move as Nash twisted fingers in his hair, pulled him up and drove a fist into his midriff. Stern doubled-over with a grunt and Nash snapped a knee up hard.

  His kneecap cracked against Stern’s bony forehead and the man flew backwards to the edge of the cliff. His eyes widened in terror as he looked into the misted depths of the river basin far below. He started to scrabble back from the edge but suddenly Nash was straddling him, a hand under his chin and fingers in his hair. Stern gurgled and writhed and spluttered as Nash forced his head back, stretching out the throat, as if he would snap the neck.

  “You’re a hair away from dyin’, Stern,” Nash panted. “I can slide you over the edge just by standing up and easin’ my weight off you, feller.”

  To drive home his point, he took some of his weight on his knees, lifting off Stern’s body a little. The man tilted back over the edge even farther, and his fingers clawed at Nash’s steel-muscled arms. Spittle flew from his frantically working mouth but he only made guttural incoherent sounds. Nash sat down again, pinning him on the edge of the sheer drop.

  “Long way down, Stern,” Nash gritted. “And that’s where you’re goin’ unless you answer me pronto. Savvy?”

  Stern nodded, trying to clear his aching, strained throat.

  “Don’t waste time tryin’ to tell me you weren’t at the Reddings’ massacre. I know you were and I want the names of the others.”

  Stern started to shake his head and Nash violently forced his head back.

  He kicked, writhed, and made desperate, grating sounds. But Nash kept up the pressure a full thirty seconds, then eased off slowly.

  “I ain’t got all night,” he snarled. “Just to help you along, I’m tellin’ you that the gal at the way-station, was a damn good friend of mine. I figure I’d’ve gotten around to marryin’ her one day; that’s how good a friend she was. Now—who led you? You ain’t got the brains to pull it off yourself, neither has Short.”

  “Chip—Chip Benedict,” Stern gasped. “Gospel, Nash. Gospel.”

  Nash frowned. He hadn’t been expecting to hear that outlaw’s name in this neck of the woods. Last he had heard of the man, he was still on the rock pile in Canyon City penitentiary. Stern, as if reading his thoughts, added:

  “He got out of Canyon City couple months back. Time off for good behavior.”

  “Where’s he hangin’ o
ut now?”

  “Goin’ to see kinfolk in Utah. That’s all I can tell you, Nash. Honest.”

  Nash frowned, thinking about it. His grip relaxed and suddenly Stern erupted under him in one final desperate bid to turn the tables on the Wells Fargo man. Nash spilled sideways and instinctively threw himself backwards, away from the edge. As he did so, his weight was removed from Stern and the outlaw made wild animal sounds as his body tilted, head down. His fingers clawed at the edge. Dirt and grass came away in a shower, as his legs rose. Nash squirmed around and made a lunge to grab them. His fingers closed over one of the riding boots and he gripped hard, but Stern’s body was moving fast and he began to scream as he slid farther over the edge.

  The boot suddenly came away in Nash’s hand as Stern’s body plummeted down the cliff face to crash onto the rocks below.

  Nash looked over the edge, his face hard, but disappointed. He wasn’t sorry Stern was dead: he had aimed to kill the man before moving on. But he was sorry he had died before he could give him more information about Benedict and the others who had ridden on that raid.

  No matter, he thought, as he looked down at the broken body far below. He had Benedict’s name. He would track him down and he would get the names of the other killers before he finished him off.

  Nash felt curiously unhurried as he stood up. And why not? he figured. He had the rest of his life to find Mary’s killers. He felt strangely indestructible as he moved towards the sorrel.

  Nothing was going to happen to him until he had the last one under his gun; after that, it simply didn’t matter.

  Chapter Six

  Nemesis Rides In

  It was on the trail to Hawkins Flats, a small settlement—not even large enough to be called a ‘town’—near the Colorado line, that Chip Benedict once more met up with Jeff Doane and Cotton Matthews.

  Two weeks had gone by since they had separated. Benedict was almost broke and cursed the luck again that had put such a small amount of cash in his hands after all the planning and killing. He figured if he could round up a couple of hardcases, he would make another try at a bank or a Wells Fargo stage or something, before crossing into Utah to look for his kinfolk.