Clay Nash 15

by Brett Waring

  “Nice work, kid,” Sundance told Larry without looking at him.

  The youth glanced swiftly at Potter and saw the disappointment on his face, swiftly followed by a rising anger.

  “You lousy little sonuver! I was bendin’ over backwards to help you! Fancy me fallin’ for your damn’ lies!”

  Waco’s gun rammed hard into Potter’s ribs and the man doubled over, gagging. Waco hit him again behind the ear, hard enough to drive him to his knees, but not enough to knock him unconscious. Then Waco slammed him across the face, turning the gun barrel so that the foresight ripped open his cheek. The agent crashed sideways and Larry took a hesitant, protesting step forward but froze at a curt command from Sundance.

  “Leave it, kid. Don’t spoil your record.” He winked unsmilingly, walked forward and placed his boot on Potter’s outspread right hand. He leaned down and nudged the man behind the ear with his gun barrel.” I guess you’re right-handed like most folk, agent. I could turn that hand into a mess of bones and pulp with one good stomp. You savvy?”

  Potter turned his pain filled eyes up to the towering gunfighter and nodded jerkily. “Wh—what do you—want?” he gasped.

  “Not much. Just want you to open the safe.” As he spoke, Sundance looked around and saw that the others had drawn the shades and extinguished two of the lamps. There were only two burning now. He cocked his gun and aimed at the nearest. “If you don’t want to do it, I reckon we’ll burn the place down round your ears. With you in it, of course. Oh, an’ by the way, agent, we know where your house is. Seen your wife an’ how many—four kids? Yeah, four. You gettin’ the drift?”

  Potter turned gray and nodded jerkily. “Judas, man, you play dirty!” He flicked his gaze to Larry. “What in hell you doin’ with a bunch like this, kid?”

  Larry looked away but started to reply. However, he was cut short by Waco growling impatiently.

  “How about that goddam safe?”

  Sundance put some weight on the agent’s right hand. “You heard the man.”

  Potter, sweating and grimacing, nodded vigorously. “Okay, okay! It ain’t worth dyin’ for or havin’ my family hurt!”

  Waco bared his teeth in a mirthless grin, reached down and twisted his fingers in Potter’s hair. He yanked the man to his knees and, despite Potter’s protests, kept pulling until the gasping agent got all the way to his feet. Waco shook him and stared into the bleeding face.

  “Right now!” he spat and heaved the agent towards the open counter flap.

  Potter staggered through and leaned against the counter, one hand shakily feeling the gash in his cheek. He figured if this, plus a lump on the head when they left, was all he got, he would be damn lucky. But he didn’t like the looks of Waco; he recognized the man from wanted dodgers that had been pinned up on his depot walls for a long time. He knew the man was a killer, and likely he would put a bullet in him to make sure he didn’t give his description to the law afterwards.

  With this almost certain knowledge that he was going to be killed no matter what he did, Potter opened a drawer and, under the watchful gaze of Sundance and Waco, took out a bunch of keys, then turned and knelt before the heavy iron door of the green-painted safe against the side wall. He figured if he opened the safe as they wanted, no matter what they did to him, at least they would leave his family alone.

  Potter unlocked the safe, deadpan, breathing shortly, wondering if he might have time to snatch the short-barreled Colt that was hidden by a couple of ledgers and a thick envelope that had come in on the afternoon stage. It only had a two-inch barrel and bucked like hell in recoil, but at this close range he ought to be able to nail Waco and Sundance at least.

  And the gunfire would alert the town, and possibly the sheriff on his night patrol...

  If he was going to die anyway—and he was convinced he was—he might as well try to take some of them with him. The company would likely see that his family was better cared for if he put up a fight of some sort.

  No sooner had the thought formed as he swung the heavy door back than Potter’s right hand shot forward with the speed of a striking snake, snatching the short Colt and using the motion of getting it clear of the safe to hurl a pile of papers towards Waco and Sundance. As he had hoped, they instinctively ducked and moved aside as the shower of papers fluttered towards them and Potter hurled himself backwards, his gun hammering. The recoil caught him unawares. He had fired it before, but out in the hills, at stationary targets, using a two-handed grip. He had been able to control the recoil to a certain extent, but now, one-handed, with the two-inch barrel, the gun jerked and rode high, coming up and smashing him in the face.

  It wasn’t hard enough to daze him, and the hesitation before he cocked the hammer again was fatal. Sundance’s gun roared a fraction of a second ahead of Waco’s, but the outlaw leader fired only the one shot, the bullet taking Potter in the middle of the chest.

  Waco punched four bullets into the agent, the man’s body jerking and spinning wildly along the floor.

  Larry was shaking, his eyes were bulging, as he stared through the gunsmoke at the dead agent. He looked at Waco in horror. Then the door opened and Idaho burst in, gun in hand. He took in the situation at a glance:

  “Someone’s comin’ up the street!”

  “Get the broncs ready!” Sundance shouted, using his free hand to shove Larry towards the opened safe that had been splashed with some of Potter’s blood. “Shove the lot into that gunnysack, kid, and let’s go.”

  Sundance turned and fired at one of the oil lamps. It shattered and blazing gobbets of oil sprayed onto the woodwork. Flames began to lick at the walls. Larry, trembling badly, didn’t try to just grab the obvious money in the safe: he scooped everything into his open gunnysack, books, papers, envelopes ... the lot. Then Waco’s steel fingers grabbed his shoulder and dragged him violently to his feet, shoving him towards the side door where Chickasaw waited, peering out into the night.

  He caught a blurred glimpse of horses and heard shouts and pounding boots.

  Larry was shoved out the door and Monte lifted him bodily, gunnysack and all, onto a waiting horse, slapped his hat across the animal’s rump and yelled at the kid to ride like hell.

  The others mounted swiftly. Flames were showing at the windows of the stage depot. The moving men were silhouetted against them. Rain hammered down. The fire reflected from puddles in the muddy street and then the band of horsemen was wheeling away from the depot, guns blazing at the scattered men running down the street. The sheriff had a rifle and he dropped to one knee in the mud, beaded swiftly on a dark rider and squeezed off three fast shots.

  A horse wickered wildly, faltered and went down, limbs thrashing, throwing the rider. It was Rudy Jenkins. Dazed, he staggered up out of the mud, yelling at the others not to leave him. But no one turned to even glance in his direction or slowed down. It was every man for himself and Rudy cursed as he dragged iron and made a lunge for a dark alley, his slicker hampering him.

  The lawman’s rifle blazed twice more and Rudy jerked in midstride, started to turn and bring up his gun. Another gun roared and Larry, watching as he rode into the night, knew the man had been shot in the middle of his face.

  Then Waco had his rifle out and, half-hipped in the saddle, sent a volley of shots back at the townsmen, working the lever and squeezing trigger with blurring speed.

  Larry caught a glimpse of the man he figured was the sheriff toppling face down into the mud and another townsman screamed, stopping dead in his tracks, clawing wildly at his shattered right arm.

  Then they rounded the trees at the edge of town and the dark, rain-lashed night stretched ahead of them as they raced for the sanctuary of the hills.

  Three – Loot

  The kid shivered in his dark corner of the cave, huddling under his thin, threadbare blankets, feeling sick and knowing the reaction after the raid on the Wells Fargo depot had finally caught up with him.

  He was amazed that they were all here and accounted
for, except for Rudy Jenkins. But none of the outlaws seemed any too bothered by the fact that Rudy had been shot down and killed. It was better that Rudy had been killed, rather than be taken prisoner. They also took the view that it meant there would be a bigger share of the take for them.

  Larry Holbrook stared now towards the gang as they hunkered over the small campfire farther back in the cave. Monte was on guard at the mouth, beyond which the rain still hammered down. There was water in the cave in parts but where they were camped was dry enough. But the air was moist and chill and, coupled with Larry’s nervous reaction, sent constant shivers through his thin body.

  He saw Sundance take a swig from the stone jug of corn whisky Idaho had produced and the gunfighter wiped the back of a hand across his mouth as he turned to look towards the kid.

  “Hey, Larry. You awake, kid?”

  Larry pretended to be asleep, though he knew if Sundance wanted him to do something, he would be wakened anyway. Might as well admit to being awake right off, he figured.

  “Yeah, I—I’m awake,” Larry said, his voice trembling.

  “What’s wrong? You sound cold?”

  “I’m freezin’.”

  “Well, hell, come closer to the fire. Come on. You earned a place with us tonight, kid. You done your part real well. Waco, toss on some more wood, so our partner can get warm.”

  “We only got this little heap of dry stuff left,” protested Waco. “Keeping that to cook breakfast.”

  Sundance made an irritable gesture. “Well, rip the pages out of them ledgers and throw ’em on. Can’t have young Larry freezin’ after the fine job he done for us. Come on, kid. Set down here beside me.”

  Larry, still clutching the blanket tightly around his thin body, sat down on the hard ground beside Sundance. The outlaw chief grinned as the fire flared up when Waco and Chickasaw ripped pages from the Wells Fargo ledgers and tossed them onto the fire. The kid moved closer, grateful for the warmth. Sundance pushed a pile of notes and coins towards him, grinning.

  “Promised you a full share, kid, and there it is. You got exactly the same as the rest of us. Hundred and twenty bucks and some loose change.”

  The youth’s jaw dropped and his eyes bulged as he stared at the money. He had never had so much money in all his life, had never even expected to have a hundred dollars at one time ... ever. His hands shook as he reached out and touched it, spilling some of the coins. Mitch Emerson smiled and Sundance laughed.

  “It ain’t gonna disappear, kid. It’s real. An’ there’ll be a lot more where that come from!”

  Larry looked at him sharply, jerking his head back a little as Waco threw on some more pages, then the ledger covers and the flames leapt up. “I—I dunno as I want to get mixed up in anythin’ like that again, Sundance.”

  “Hell, that’s just reaction talkin’. Wait’ll you calm down an’ we get to some town where you can start spendin’ that dinero. You’ll be glad you got it when you see what it’ll buy you. An’ it won’t last long, once you start. You won’t want to be without more of the same, so you’ll help us again.” He dropped an arm about the kid’s thin shoulders and hugged him affectionately. “You’re a good little actor, kid. We can use you plenty. You got just the kind of sad, hangdog face to get folks sympathy an’ once they start worryin’ about your problems, they let down their guards an’ we can move in.”

  Larry shook his head jerkily. “It—it’s the killin’ I don’t like.”

  “Hell, that was the agent’s stupid fault. If he hadn’t reached for that hideaway we’d’ve just tapped him on the skull an’ all he’d have would be a headache and a lot of explainin’ to do to Wells Fargo. But he wanted to play hero an’ we couldn’t stand still for that kinda foolishness.”

  Sundance winked at Waco and the others with the eye away from the kid. Larry stared into his face.

  “You—weren’t gonna kill him anyway?”

  “Hell, no. Why would we?”

  “He seen our faces.”

  “Don’t mean a thing. We’re a pretty average lookin’ bunch of rannies. Less he could put a name to our faces, his descriptions wouldn’t do much. Might’ve recognized Waco, ’cause he’s on a lot of dodgers, but that wouldn’t’ve bothered Waco none, would it, amigo?”

  He glanced quizzically at the Texan and Waco merely scowled, ripping up another ledger. Chickasaw had been feeding in papers and now came to the thick envelope, ripped it open and pulled out the papers inside. Curiously, he glanced at them as he absently tossed the envelope into the fire.

  Sundance turned to Larry and began to talk quietly with him, trying to convince him that there was a rich future awaiting him along the owlhoot trail. Larry kept shaking his head stubbornly. Slowly, the smile dropped from Sundance’s face.

  “Well, look at it this way, kid,” he said with a harsh edge to his voice. “You helped us in one robbery and killin’. You done good an’ we don’t want to let you go—Get my drift?”

  Larry paled as he looked at him sharply. “That’s—that’s blackmail!”

  “Judas priest, what do you expect?” Waco growled as Sundance merely shrugged. “This ain’t no Sunday school picnic you’re on, kid. This is the real thing ... and we gotta protect our investment.” He turned to Chickasaw. “You gonna toss that goddam paper on or not?”

  The breed glanced up from the sheet he had been studying and proffered it to Sundance who, frowning puzzledly, took it slowly.

  “Read that, Sundance,” the breed said quietly.

  The outlaw chief’s lips moved slowly as he laboriously began to read. Chickasaw laughed abruptly and Sundance snapped his head up, face angry.

  “I don’t read so good,” he snapped. “You think that’s funny?”

  Chickasaw held up a placating hand, straightening his face. “No, no. It’s just that me an’ Monte are kinda looked on as bein’ backward, but we got an advantage over you palefaces!”

  Sundance scowled. “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Mission school! They belted us along with a hickory switch, made us attend, made us learn readin’ an’ writin’, gave us poor dumb Injun-breeds a better education that some white folks!”

  Sundance’s scowl deepened. “All right, so you got a queer sense of humor.” He tossed the pages at the breed. “What’s so important about that letter?”

  Chickasaw sobered as he picked up the pages. “Well, it’s on an official Wells Fargo letterhead first of all. I noticed there’d been sealin’ wax on the envelope flap, which likely means it was somethin’ private. That’s what made me look at it.”

  “You sure ride a damn’ roundabout trail, Chickasaw!” growled Waco. “Get on with it, smart-ass!”

  The breed ignored him, tapped the pages. “It’s from Wells Fargo’s Head Office in Denver, signed by Jim Hume, their Chief of Detectives. Warnin’ the agent at Signal that there’s gonna be a special train comin’ through with a big shipment of gold in a new-type express car. The gold’s to be held in the Signal bank to be used as wages for the big engineer teams that are on their way to start buildin’ a tunnel through the mountain for The Sierra and Prairie Line. Wells Fargo’s responsibility is to get the gold up there an’ see it safely to the bank.”

  All the outlaws were showing interest now and even Monte came back from the cave mouth to hunker down by the fire as Chickasaw continued;

  “The express car’s begin’ done up to look like an ordinary, regular box car, but... there’s a sketch of it here ... it’s really a steel lined box ridin’ on a flatbed wagon, lifted on an’ off by a crane.”

  “What?” exclaimed Sundance, frowning. “The whole thing’s lifted on and off a flatbed?”

  “Yeah. Don’t have to open any doors that way. They seal ’em up in Denver and at Signal they lift the car off onto a waitin’ lumber wagon and deliver it straight to the bank’s door. The gold’s protected all the way.”

  “Smart move,” Waco allowed.

  “Too smart for us to do anythin’ about it,” opined
Mitch Emerson quietly, feeling his smooth jowls, testing for bristles, although it was only a few hours since he had shaved.

  “Mebbe not,” Chickasaw disagreed, flicking his eyes around at the others, including the silent, wide-eyed Larry Holbrook.

  “Go on,” Sundance said.

  “Well, for one thing, it’s gonna be shipped on a regular nine-car freight so’s no one’ll know there’s any gold on board. Guess that’s why they made up the outside to look like the usual freight van. So, with all the secrecy, they won’t even be expectin’ anyone to try for the gold, ’cause they’ll think no one knows about it, except the company, the railroad and the bank.”

  “We know about it now,” Idaho growled. “But it ain’t gonna do us any good the way they got that gold boxed-up.”

  “Who says?” Sundance spoke up, taking the papers from Chickasaw and turning the pages. He studied the sketch and a crude map on the last page. “Got the route here, marked out with all the likely trouble spots. Hume don’t leave anythin’ to chance. But that train’s got to cross the Colorado River at Skillet Canyon, over the trestle bridge. Hume ain’t got that marked as a likely trouble spot, but it could be.”

  He flicked his gaze around at the others and saw his idea slowly sinking in. Larry, beside him, stiffened.

  “Jeepers, Sundance! You mean—blow the bridge or somethin’?” the kid piped.

  Sundance smiled crookedly. “That’s exactly what I mean, kid.”

  “But—the whole train’ll plunge into the canyon!”

  “That’s the idea. Likely the express car’ll bust open when it hits, too.”

  “But the guards! People on the train!” protested Larry.