Clay Nash 15

by Brett Waring

  “Well—she an’ pa weren’t livin’ together. He took me away from her years ago, kept out in the woods so I couldn’t run away. Now he’s dead an’ I wrote to my ma an’ an aunt wrote back an’ said she’s dyin’.”

  Nash stared at him soberly. This kid sure had all the answers.

  They sounded honest enough, but maybe just a mite too glib. Nash had been going to offer the kid a ticket to Julesburg—he had been adrift on the frontier himself when about Larry’s age and no one had helped him, but he sure could have used a friendly look or helping hand—but now he held off and instead, handed Larry Holbrook fifty cents and pointed to the cafe opposite through the downpour.

  “Go get some grub under your belt. I’ll see you later. Train don’t pull out till after sundown.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mr. Nash. You’re—well, thanks.”

  Larry gave him a quick, nervous grin and, clutching the fifty cent piece sprinted through the mud towards the cafe. Nash picked up the reins of his horse, walked it down to the livery and stabled it. Then he got a wire off to Jim Hume in Denver and went over to the agency and looked around, watched by the scowling Hank as the deputy stood guard, using the dry, undamaged area of the office.

  Nash looked at the safe and concluded, like the sheriff, that it hadn’t been forced open. Likely Potter had been threatened and had unlocked it with his keys. Nash took out the wet gunnysack and hefted it. He looked inside and saw three thin leather-bound ledgers, some loose papers and a couple of envelopes. He nodded to the surly Hank, then left the agency. He booked a room at the Mountain House Hotel and, lounging back in a cut-down rain barrel of hot water, read through the books and papers swiftly, soaking up the warmth, later soaping away the trail grime.

  By then, he had read the secret correspondence about the special gold train and figured it was lucky whoever had robbed the safe hadn’t taken this too.

  As he dried himself, he saw there were reddish, clay-like stains clinging to the bottom of the gunnysack and a little on the ledgers. He frowned, dressed, and then took the papers and books over to the law office and had sheriff Gentry lock them away in his safe.

  “They important?” the lawman asked.

  “Could be,” Nash said enigmatically and halted as he turned to go when a messenger from the telegraph office came bustling in, breathless, taking a dog-eared yellow message form from under his slicker.

  It was a reply from Jim Hume.

  ASCERTAIN ITEMS STOLEN. STAY THERE. PREPARE TO TAKE OVER INVESTIGATION.

  IMPERATIVE CORRESPONDENCE BE SECURED. ARRIVING FIRST AVAILABLE TRAIN. HUME.

  Nash knew what ‘correspondence’ Hume was referring to now that he had read the secret letter about the gold train. He gave the messenger a short reply to send to the effect that he had everything in hand and then re-read Hume’s wire. Something bothered him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was so deep in thought about it as he walked out that he didn’t hear the sheriff enquire if everything was all right.

  Nash tightened his slicker about his throat and walked out to the agency building again. Hank was still there, splashed with the dark, chocolate mud, swearing that it was about time someone relieved him. Nash promised to mention it to the sheriff and paused as he saw Hank cleaning thick layers of mud from his boots. He watched as it plopped to the wooden floor.

  “That the only kind of mud around here? The dark brown stuff?” he asked.

  The deputy looked at him as if he was suddenly loco. “What kind you want? Candy-striped?”

  Nash shook his head slowly, knowing now what had troubled him. “No. I was thinkin’ more of red clay.”

  “Clay? Not round here, mister. Not on this side of the mountain. Back in the hills there’s some, way back ...”

  Nash nodded and turned and hurried out without another word. He half-ran, to the cafe and pushed open the door, looking around swiftly at the customers, settling his gaze on the counter hand.

  “Lanky kid with a freckled face,” Nash said. “Came in here mebbe a half-hour ago. Had a fifty cent piece an’ looked like he could eat the hind leg off a hoss. He still here somewhere?”

  The counterman shook his head. “He never had nothin’ to eat. He just stood in the middle of the room lookin’ out the window into the street, like he was watchin’ someone. He left after a few minutes—after stompin’ his boots an’ leavin’ mud all over my floor.”

  “Mud?” echoed Nash.

  “Sure. Damn red clay, stomped right into the boards. Had to have Hattie scrub it down with soapsuds.”

  Nash nodded slowly. “Red clay,” he said quietly, his mouth tightening, as he turned and went out into the rain again.

  He would like to know how come the ledgers inside that gunnysack had red clay all over them when there was no red clay within twenty miles of Signal.

  He aimed to hang around the railroad depot on the off-chance that the kid had been telling the truth about wanting to get to Julesburg. But he didn’t have much hope of Larry Holbrook turning up.

  Nash knew he had been tricked ... by an expert...

  Four – Mark of a Badman

  There was a lot at stake and Clay Nash knew he couldn’t take a chance on it. He hurried to the telegraph office and sent off a long wire to Hume. Part of it voiced his suspicions that maybe, just maybe, the secret letter about the special gold shipment had been seen and read by the outlaws who had robbed the depot and that the ledgers and papers had been put back in the safe in an effort to throw them off the trail.

  Nash knew it was a long shot, but that red clay had worried him. There was no chance that it could have soaked through the sack itself: there was too much and it was too thick for that. It looked to Nash as if those ledgers had been resting at some stage in red clay, and if there was none anywhere near the town, only back in the hills—the direction taken by the escaping outlaws—then there was only one conclusion he could draw under the circumstances.

  It meant, of course, that the kid was also involved.

  Nash found it hard to swallow at first but he was forced to look at the hard evidence and it pointed to the kid at least being used to try to get the ledgers and the secret letter back into the safe.

  He had questioned Sheriff Gentry and his deputy, also the townsman who had been employed part-time by Will Potter to help out at the agency. Nash had wanted to know if they had touched anything after the fire had been brought under control. All denied that they had, and all had said that they had figured the safe had been empty, cleaned-out. But, they admitted, it was possible there had been some books left in it as a few charred planks had partly obscured it from their view.

  It wasn’t likely that the outlaws would scoop up the ledgers and papers as well as the money, but Nash reckoned they might’ve just grabbed the lot after shooting Potter and with Sheriff Gentry on patrol. If the lookout had spotted anyone coming towards the agency there was a good chance the thieves had merely scooped everything into a gunnysack, books and all, and then, shot their way out and hightailed it for the hills.

  The firing of the agency was a trademark of Sundance Harmer. He was the man with the reputation of starting fires to keep townsfolk from pursuing him, thus giving himself and his wild bunch a better chance to get away. The heavy rains washing out any tracks had helped him even more in this case.

  He was a smart hombre. Sundance had been a thorn in Wells Fargo’s side for a long time. Nash had caught up with him once and had been sure he would get at least ten years on the rock-pile for the robberies he had pulled. But Sundance had somehow gotten hold of a smart lawyer who had managed to get him a reduced sentence of only two years in the State Penitentiary at Canyon City and he had been paroled after eighteen months. He had taken every opportunity he could since then to get even; hitting remote agencies, way stations, disrupting stage runs, setting fires at coach workshops and so on.

  If he had seen that letter about the shipment of gold on behalf of The Sierra and Prairie Line and the Signal bank, he would have s
een good opportunity to really do some damage to the company. He would know that the moment the letter was noticed to be missing, the schedule would be immediately changed and the gold moved at some other time, by some other means.

  So he would make the effort to replace that letter, hoping Wells Fargo would think he hadn’t seen it and set up his plans for robbing the train.

  It would be damn’ hard, Nash figured. From what he had seen in that letter, with the steel-lined car, bolted to a flatbed wagon, it would be no easy job. But Sundance had never been one to be put off by a little difficulty.

  Nash questioned the townsmen who had been with Gentry when the outlaws had shot their way out of the agency and two men said that a ‘small man’ had been the first to mount up and high-tail it. He hadn’t had any guns but had been carrying a gunnysack. Clay Nash figured this had likely been Larry Holbrook and Sundance had mounted after him and put himself and his outlaws’ guns between the kid and the towners.

  He didn’t know what a kid like Larry was doing mixing with Sundance’s bunch, but he aimed to find out. He didn’t like being made a fool of and he had to admit the kid had taken him in completely. Well, it wouldn’t happen a second time. If they ever met up again—! And Nash had plans for just such a meeting.

  By sundown, there was a reply to his wire to Hume. The Chief of Detectives had decided to stay in Denver as Nash had suggested, and supervise the shipping of the gold. Because there was just a chance that the papers had been seen—Nash’s theories were not proof by any means—they couldn’t take the chance of sticking to the original schedule. But, instead of delaying the shipment of gold, Hume was putting it forward.

  He was hooking the special express car to the next passenger train in three days’ time. The original movement had been planned for ten days’ time on the freight line; moving it up by a week ought to take care of the risk that the outlaws may have seen the letter and been planning on stopping the train.

  Nash approved of Hume’s plan and knew the Detective Chief would have to work night and day to make the new arrangements.

  Meantime, Nash was to carry on with his investigations here in Signal.

  The rain had eased some by now, though there were reports of flooding coming in from all over. The big Colorado River itself was said to be the highest on record, overflowing and inundating hundreds of square miles of timber and cattle lands. Some folks had been drowned, others had sought shelter on higher ground and been saved, but had lost all their possessions and stock. A few of the survivors from the plains country were beginning to drift into Signal, dull-eyed, dazed, moving mechanically, just wanting to get as far away from the raging floodwaters as possible.

  Nash checked with the livery that his horse had been taken care of and would be ready for him to move out come sunup.

  He didn’t have any real leads, only that the outlaws had disappeared into the hills. Armed with the latest survey map, he aimed to make a sortie into the mountains and check out the most obvious and likely hiding places. There wasn’t any real hope of success, but there was always a chance he might pick up something useful from one of the remote ranches out there.

  He took a wanted dodger of Waco Bright with him. This was the only positive thing he had: the townsmen had all agreed that Waco had been one of the outlaws.

  And Nash was tolerably certain that the kid had been with them too. So that made two men to look for.

  He had solved cases with a lot less information to go on.

  At the outlaws’ cave, Waco was growing restless; his share of the loot was burning a hole in his pocket.

  Back here in the hills, the rain still misted down and there was a watery, dripping curtain at the cave mouth.

  “Hell, Sundance, I don’t see why we shouldn’t set out this thing in a little more comfort,” Waco complained, huddling under his corn sack poncho that he had draped over his shoulders as he crouched close to the fire. “I’m from Texas and I don’t like cold ... specially wet cold. Gets right into a man’s bones. Now we each got over a hundred bucks and that’d buy a helluva lot of comfort in my book, so I don’t see no sense in shiverin’ our fat off in this lousy cave.”

  One or two of the others murmured—it could have been in agreement or merely a comment. The others remained silent. Sundance raked his cold eyes over all of them, coming to rest briefly on the pinched face of Larry Holbrook before finally settling his gaze on Waco.

  “Yeah, well I admit it ain’t the best, but we can stick it out till that gold train comes through. Be safer, Waco.”

  “If we don’t drown first! Look at the way that water’s creepin’ in here!”

  “Rain’s easin’ some,” Sundance allowed.

  “Easin’ hell! Just takin’ a breather, if you ask me! Everythin’s in flood on the plains with the Colorado runnin’ the way she is. Hell, that drifter the kid said he met on his way back from Signal said it was climbin’ up the walls of Skillet Canyon and there was talk trains mightn’t even make it over the trestle bridge. Well, man, I mean if the river’s gettin’ high, it’s gonna back-up into these hills an’ we’ll be cut off!”

  Monte and Chickasaw exchanged a worried glance. Mitch Emerson scrubbed a hand thoughtfully over his smooth-shaven jowls, while Idaho reached out for a burning twig and used it to light his newly-rolled cigarette.

  “No sense in trappin’ ourselves, Sundance,” he opined as he puffed smoke. “River’s as bad as that drifter says, they might cancel the train.”

  Sundance snorted. “Takes more than floods to stop ’em movin’ gold around. And that drifter had to be talkin’ a lot of hogwash, tryin’ to scare the pants off Larry. If the river was flooded as he claimed it’d have washed the trestle bridge away by now. Hell, half the State would be under water.”

  The others digested this slowly. Waco shot his cold gaze at the kid.

  “You lie to us, kid? You dress-up what that drifter told you just to make it a good story?”

  “Hell, no!” Larry denied hotly. “I told it just the way he said. I thought you should know, is all. I weren’t tryin’ to make nothin’ out of it.”

  Waco continued to glare until Larry flushed and dropped his gaze.

  “I’m for movin’ out of here, anyway,” Waco growled. “Bad as the drifter said or not, I don’t like it here an’ I’ve a hankerin’ for a warm bed with some female company. We got both the dinero an’ the time to buy both them things before that train’s due through here.”

  “And Nash waiting in Signal,” Sundance said soberly. “Or prowlin’ this country lookin’ for us.”

  Waco waved that aside. “I’ll take care of Nash if he shows. Anyways, I wasn’t figurin’ on bein’ loco enough to go down to Signal. There’re other towns in the mountains where a man can buy a drink an’ a gal’s company. Cedar Ridge for one.”

  “Cedar Ridge?” echoed Sundance. “Too damn’ close to Signal.”

  “No law there, though,” pointed out Waco.

  “No need to be. It’s so close to Signal,” retorted Sundance. He glanced around at the others. “I see by your faces most of you’ve got a mind to do the same thing as Waco. Hankerin’ for gals and booze. Money burnin’ holes in your pockets.” He sighed and made a wide gesture. “Well, I guess it’s got some merit. We stay here for another eight, ten days and we’ll be at each others’ throats and we don’t want that. But I reckon a place like Benbow’d be better than Cedar Ridge.”

  “Hell, that’s near enough to Bible country!” complained Waco. “They close the saloons at midnight. Man’s gotta ride five miles outta town to the cathouse ’cause they won’t allow the gals to operate within the town limits.”

  “I’ve known you to ride fifty miles for a little female company, Waco,” Idaho said. “And not a good lookin’ one at that.”

  “You hush your damn mouth, Idaho!” Waco reddened. “No one asked you for your opinion. Besides that was when there was nothin’ closer. Now Cedar Ridge is within range I plan to be more selective.”

 
The group broke into nervous laughter.

  Sundance swore. “Hell with you then. You want to risk Cedar Ridge, you go ahead. I’m headed for Benbow.” He raked his hard gaze around the others. “If you’ve got any sense the rest of you will, too.”

  They started talking amongst themselves and Sundance touched the silent Larry Holbrook on the leg. The kid glanced up, startled out of his thoughts.

  “And you, kid? You taggin’ along?”

  Larry had been thinking about his future. He hadn’t liked the killing of Potter or for that matter being mixed up in the agency deal at all. Against his objections, he now had more money than he had ever seen in his life and there was the promise of a lot more to come.

  Besides, he had been scared down in Signal when that deputy had caught him. He figured he had been lucky that Clay Nash had been there. The sheriff might well have tossed him in jail. That had scared him more than anything else. Above everything, he was free now that his father was dead and he had always been a creature of the wild and the wide open spaces. When his father had locked him up in that cabin sometimes he had near gone loco just with the confinement. He couldn’t stand the thought of a prison cell.

  That was why he had slipped away from Signal—and Nash—at the first opportunity. He had thought that continuing to run with Sundance was the lesser of the two evils.

  Now he lifted his pinched face to the gunfighter and smiled faintly.

  “Guess I’ll stick with you, Sundance.”

  The outlaw ruffled his greasy hair.

  “That’s the kinda talk I like to hear, kid! Stick with me an’ I’ll make you rich.” He sobered suddenly and his eyes pinched down as he added, quietly, “And, in the process, I’ll bring Wells Fargo to its knees. That part’ll be almost as good as gettin’ the gold itself!”

  The lone rider’s camp was on the side of a gulch and, because of the heavy, moist air, the smoke lay in an anvil-like pattern, rising only halfway up the rock-face.