by Brett Waring
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “We figured you’d be smart enough to savvy that part.”
Nash shrugged. “Work’s not so easy to come by. I’ve calmed down some. Thought I might try Wells Fargo again but Jim Hume’s blacklisted me, which, incidentally, is why I couldn’t get a job anywhere else, too.”
“Tough.”
“Way it goes, I guess. Figured I might see if Hollander needs a deputy.”
Red Morgan stiffened. “He’s got one!”
Nash laughed briefly. “Relax, Morgan. It was a joke. I wouldn’t work for a snake like Hollander.”
Morgan studied him suspiciously. “Why you want to see him?”
“Who said I did?”
“You.”
“Nope. Said I was on my way to the law office. Might’ve been you I wanted to see.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Nash.”
Nash looked innocent. “Hell, I wouldn’t do that. Not with a tough ranny like you. Guess you got used to bein’ your own man when you were runnin’ buffalo down on the Red River, huh?” Morgan’s eyes slitted and his jaw hardened as he stared at Nash. He didn’t reply.
“You and Hollander—and Callan,” Nash added quietly.
Still Morgan said nothing, merely glared.
“Met a hombre who knew you up there. All three of you. Feller called Lex Skinner. He’s dead now.”
Morgan flicked one eyebrow. “Tough, too, huh?”
Nash shrugged. “Lex and me go back a long way. He figured he had a lot to square away. Had me dead to rights but muffed it as usual. Died hard. Lung shot. That’s why I know everything he told me was gospel. He had no breath to waste.”
“What’d he tell you?” Morgan demanded.
Nash smiled coldly.
Morgan hefted the Greener and was suddenly aware of folk on the street nearby starting to scatter. He swore silently and let the gun dangle from his hand again. He held out a stiffened forefinger in front of Nash’s face.
“Don’t play games with me, mister!”
Nash bared his teeth in a tight grin, suddenly grabbed at that stiffened forefinger, twisted fast and hard and Morgan, caught unawares, grunted in pain, dropping to one knee, almost falling to one side as Nash continued to twist savagely. Suddenly, there was a dull, wrenching sound and Morgan went white, sobbed out a sick-sounding curse and dropped the Greener, putting the hand down on the ground to keep from falling.
Nash released his other hand and the deputy stared at his swollen, bruised and disjointed finger through tears of raging pain.
“Don’t wag your finger at me, you son of a bitch!” Nash said and brought up his knee, driving it savagely into the man’s broad face.
Red Morgan catapulted backwards and lay sprawled in the dust, moaning, half-conscious, his nose flattened and blood streaking his face.
Nash dusted down his clothes, straightened his hat and walked slowly away through the gathering, gaping crowd.
He figured it was time to bring things out into the open and laying out Morgan that way ought to just about do it.
Chapter Seven – Burn the Evidence
Sheriff Race Hollander stopped dead when he came through the door of the law office and saw Red Morgan sitting in the chair at his desk.
The deputy’s left arm was in a sling, the hand heavily bandaged. There was a thick pad of bandages over his nose, too, and this was held in place by strips of tape that distorted his bruised features. The man had two black eyes and his lids were purple and swollen. His eyes seemed to glitter way back in dark tunnels.
“What in Sam Hill happened to you?” the sheriff demanded as he came in and closed the door behind him.
“Nash.”
Hollander stiffened. “Nash?”
“Back in town.”
The sheriff swore. “What brings him back?”
“Lex Skinner tried to nail him. Nash got him. Before he died, he told how he knew you, me and Callan was up on the Red River.”
Hollander cursed loud and long this time. “That’d be enough for a hombre like Nash to start puttin’ a few things together.”
“He can’t prove anything.”
“Goddamn it, he doesn’t have to at this stage! He knows now we knew Callan and Callan killed Parrish. He’ll figure it had to be a set-up, then he’ll start movin’ in.”
“I’ll fix him.”
“Like hell! He was too smart for you. He done that to you so that if anythin’ happens to him now, folk are gonna start lookin’ straight at you! He was too damn smart, Red!”
Morgan’s mouth tightened. “He ain’t gettin’ away with this!”
“Forget gettin’ square for now. We got more at stake. But we gotta stop Nash, just the same.”
“If I shotgunned him from an alley, they’d think it was someone from his past squarin’ away with him.”
Hollander waved it aside, thinking. “Too risky. We’ll take care of him another way.”
“How?”
“I dunno yet, but gimme time.”
He spun towards the door as there was a knock and it opened and Lucy Parrish came hurrying in, pale and worried-looking.
“What in hell’re you doin’ here?” Hollander exclaimed. “Thought I told you to stay clear of this office!”
“I’m a citizen of Virginia City,” Lucy told him coolly. “I’ve every right to come to the law office. No one will think it strange, Race.”
Hollander dragged down a deep breath and let it out slowly, nodding. “No, guess not. But what’s up? You look like you got some sort of bug in your ear.”
Lucy gripped her small purse tightly. “Yes. I—I’ve had a shock. Clay Nash came back ...”
“We know about that,” Hollander growled.
“He’s heard that Mitch was selling-out Wells Fargo and he’s been questioning me about it.”
Hollander frowned. “What’d he want to know?”
“About our bank account and where the money came from for Mitch to gamble with. And—and how I bought the furniture.”
“What’d you tell him?” the sheriff demanded.
“I—I said I drew the money out of the bank account.” She stepped close. “It’ll be all right, Race. He believed me. I know he did.”
Hollander looked dubious. “Nash is smart. He might check the bank.”
“They won’t tell him anything.”
The sheriff stared at her blankly. “Not him. But they might Wells Fargo.”
Lucy paled. “How—how’d you know he was still working for them?”
“It just come to me. Had to be a set-up, him throwin’ in his badge that way. I guess he admitted to you he’s still with ’em?”
“Yes, and he—he did say Hume was checking up on Mitch. That could mean the bank, I suppose.”
“Stupid damn gal!” breathed Morgan in a low voice.
“I couldn’t help it! Some old enemy told him about Mitch!” She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin defiantly. “Anyway, Race Hollander, you know fine it’ll be in your interests to protect me and see that nothing happens to me. That was our deal and I still have that paper incriminating you and Morgan that Mitch had written out. Remember that.”
Morgan was on his feet now but Hollander signed to him to take it easy.
“We’ll remember. We know you have us over a barrel, Lucy. If you didn’t, I’d never have given you that money for your lousy furniture. And you did right comin’ to see me.” He clapped an arm about her shoulders but she fought off swiftly. He laughed. “Suit yourself. But you go on back home and stay there. Stay there, you hear? We’ll take care of Nash. And Hume, if we have to, or the whole of Wells Fargo. You just sit tight.”
Lucy hesitated. “Does Nash have to—die?”
“Leave it to us,” Hollander said again and ushered her out swiftly into the night. He leaned back against the door and Morgan looked at him expectantly.
“Well?”
“Red, want you to take a short walk. Not yet. In an hour or so.”
&nbs
p; Morgan frowned. “Where?”
“To Lucy Parrish’s.”
Nash and Hume met again at Indian Head below the mines that were still clattering and thudding in their endless workings of the rich ore from the mountain of silver.
The two men took as many precautions as earlier for they hadn’t yet made it generally known that Nash was still, in reality, working for Wells Fargo. There just might be something further to gain by folk thinking that he had quit the powerful transport company.
“There was two, three hundred bucks’ worth of furniture, Jim,” Nash reported, “and she claims she took the money out of the bank account.”
“She’s lying, Clay.”
Nash stiffened. “You sure?”
“Damn right. Once I put a little pressure on the bank manager and got him to cooperate, he went all the way. He not only got me a copy of Mitch Parrish’s home account, which had around four hundred bucks in it, but he got me the deposit and withdrawal slips as well. There hasn’t been a deposit made for six weeks, but there’d been two withdrawals. None since before Mitch was killed.”
Nash said, “Then where did she get the money?”
“Maybe from another account,” Hume said quietly.
Nash snapped his head around. “You found a second one? Hidden one?”
“Yeah. Your hunch about the gal’s maiden name was right. Under Jarvis—no ‘e’ or ‘double-s’—there was a second operating account.” He paused, then added quietly, “With over five thousand dollars in it.”
Clay Nash whistled softly. “So there’s no doubt. Mitch sold out.”
“Looks that way, Clay. Last deposit was right after the Cherokee Flats stage robbery a month back. I didn’t ask for any withdrawal slips because the manager had said it seemed that Mitch was using this account as a nest-egg and hadn’t been drawing on it. But if Lucy found out about it, she might have drawn some out.”
Nash scratched at his stubbled chin. “Maybe not, Jim. I mean, Lucy only furnished one room, the parlor. She aims to do the rest of the house, she says, but she’d have done it all at once, I reckon, if there was five thousand available.”
“She’d know it would look strange, Clay. She’s intelligent. She’d do it a little at a time.”
“Yeah—could be. I’ve a hunch, though, the money she used came from somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I dunno, Jim. I’ve got some loose ideas in the back of my head on this, but they haven’t come together yet.”
“I’ll have the manager check at the bank and see if the Jarvis account has been touched during the last week.” He looked at Nash, barely making him out in the darkness. “If she’s learnt about it, Clay, it means she’s holding out on us. She must’ve found some papers to lead her to the account.”
“Unless she’s known about it all along and Mitch simply wouldn’t let her touch it. And wouldn’t touch it himself. I guess it was his ranch money.”
“It was Wells Fargo money,” Hume said curtly. “We haven’t any proof yet, but I haven’t a doubt in my mind that Skinner told you the gospel truth about Parrish, Claybourne and Shaw. They helped rig a whole slew of stage robberies and got paid off for it from the proceeds.”
Nash nodded slowly.
“I guess it looks bad, all right. I’m pretty sure that Hollander and Morgan are in it, too. I’ve goosed ’em a mite; be interestin’ to see what comes of it.”
“You watch your back. You took too big a chance slugging Morgan like that.”
“Madder they get, more chance of ’em makin’ a slip.”
“As long as you’re alive to know about it.”
Nash grunted and started to speak but choked off the words, holding up a hand as Hume began to say something too.
“Listen, Jim.”
They both listened intently and at first all they could hear was the clattering thud and thump of the mines and the distant night sounds coming from the saloons in town. Then, penetrating both these compounds of noise, came the clanging of a bell. They realized then, that a lot of the shouting and muted yelling they had naturally thought was coming from the saloons was emanating from the streets.
Both men looked towards town, turning slowly in their saddles, hands on gun butts, their instincts warning them that there was danger or trouble coming.
“Fire!”
Hume saw it first, a glow that outlined the roofs and shapes of some of the town’s buildings on one side. Even as Nash looked towards the area Hume indicated, the flames leapt upwards with a new burst of energy and he swore savagely.
“That’s on the hill where Lucy Parrish lives!”
He was already spurring his mount away and Hume swore and put his mount after Nash. They galloped recklessly through the narrow, dangerous draw with its slippery pebbles underfoot. Nash’s animal slipped and skidded but he hauled it upright by the reins, throwing back his weight and, as soon as it was on an even keel again, slammed home the spurs and yelled.
The horse streaked out of the draw and along the dusty trail back towards town. Only once did Nash glance back and he caught a glimpse of Hume a hundred yards behind. He lashed at the sweating mount with rein ends as he thundered into the streets of Virginia City. Folk were coming out of their homes in their night attire. Men were charging wildly down the street, half-dressed, boots pulled on, nightshirt tails flying, as the members of the Volunteer Fire Brigade ran towards the fire.
By the time Nash reached the foot of the hill, the street was jammed with people and he loosed a couple of shots into the air, scattering them wildly, lunging his mount up the slope. His heart choked in his throat as he saw that it was Lucy’s house that was ablaze. Flames leapt high in the air. The old, weathered timber burned like paper. There was a roaring sound as it was consumed, the violent updraughts flinging blazing debris high.
Already the old, man-hauled fire truck had four men ranged either side, working the long pump handles while two other men played a feeble stream of water against the wall of flames.
“Forget the damn fire!” bawled the blacksmith who was also the fire chief. “The house has gone. Play that water on the places either side or we’ll have the whole goddamn town go up in smoke.”
Men ran about, yelling, slopping buckets of water, running out the canvas hose lengths, jostling, beating at the edges of the fire with wet sacks. A bucket brigade was forming to throw water over the houses either side. Sparks swirled in burning gusts and set clothes smoldering, flesh stinging. Smoke roiled in choking clouds, blinding, obscuring. Timber cracked and exploded. Glassware shattered. Oil reservoirs in lamps exploded and added fuel to the fire. Shingles spun high like arcing skyrockets on a Fourth of July.
If anyone was in that house, it was their funeral pyre, Nash thought, running through the din and bustle of the fire fighters, reaching for the blacksmith’s burly, sweating arm.
The man rounded angrily. “Get the hell outa here! If you ain’t in the brigade, I don’t want to know you! Vamoose!”
“The woman!” Nash bawled in his ear as the man turned away. “Did you get her out?”
The blacksmith turned back, somberly. “Ain’t seen no one, mister. Place was like a torch before we was called. Went up like paper.”
Nash cursed and lunged around the blacksmith who yelled and grabbed at him, missing him by inches.
“Clay, don’t be a fool!” yelled Jim Hume as he ran up.
But it was too late. Nash was already snatching a soaking wet potato sack from a startled volunteer and racing towards the inferno. A wall of heat hurled him back as if he had been hit a solid blow by a passing locomotive. He got the bag up in front of his face. The heat burned his hands at the edges. Steam began to rise instantly from the bag as the tremendous heat sucked the moisture from it. Nash swore, staggered back, dodged the hands that reached for him and snatched a bucket from a man in the line. He tipped the water over himself, drenching his clothes. He grabbed another soaking bag from yet another man nearby and ran around to the side
of the house.
It was just as intense here and the flames were violent, living things, monsters, leaping and roaring out of the heart of the house. A heavy, thick beam, blazing from end to end, thundered down only a foot in front of him, showering him with sparks. He leapt back, stumbled, fell. A wall, ablaze from top to bottom, bulged outwards towards him, crashed down.
Nash scrabbled away wildly on hands and knees, hurling himself bodily, hitting hard, rolling. He was deafened by the sound of the crashing wall. Timber shattered and more flames erupted skywards. His clothes were steaming and smoldering. Choking, eyes streaming, lungs raw, he staggered around to the rear and threw an arm across his face, his heart sinking. It was impossible to enter. If anything, the fire was worse here than at the front.
Clay Nash stumbled back, didn’t resist now when rough hands hauled him away. He was coughing, body wracked with spasms, his chest seeming to tear apart with each convulsion. When his head cleared and he got his senses back fully, he found himself propped against a corner of a building across the street from all the activity around Lucy Parrish’s house. Or what remained of it. It was still blazing, but there wasn’t even a complete shell standing now; there was a pile of burning lumber, a couple of thin charred uprights still with flames licking at them, and muddy water everywhere.
Jim Hume helped him slowly to his feet.
“Lucy?” Nash was so shocked that he could barely speak. The word came out as a guttural growl and he tried to clear his throat. It hurt like hell and he grabbed it gently with his right hand, seeing the burns on the back of it. “She—all right?”
Hume shook his head. “No one knows, Clay. No one’s seen her about since the fire. Neighbor thought she went out earlier in the evening but doesn’t know if she came back or not. They’re checking through the town now.”
Nash drank some water a blistered, grimy volunteer handed him and felt better. Much of the crowd had gone now; only the morbid ones stayed, hoping to catch a glimpse of a charred body perhaps, wanting to take in every detail for later relaying through the gossip lines of Virginia City. The firemen were doing little more now than keeping the last of the fire contained within the confines of the pile of red and blackened timbers.
