by Brett Waring
It was drizzling but the whole mountain was noisy with the sounds of running water crashing over rocks, eroding away layers of earth, washing loose shallow-rooted bushes, starting minor landslides. The sounds likely covered the approach of Clay Nash as he put his horse carefully across the face of the mountain, his rifle butt resting against his thigh, eyes watching that hanging pall of wood smoke.
He dismounted before he reached the gulch and notched back the hammer, holding the Winchester in both hands now as he approached the camp. He came to the edge of the rock-face above the camp and knelt, peering carefully and seeing the dim shape of a man hunched over the cooking fire, pouring tar-black coffee from a battered pot. He wore a slicker loosely over his shoulders and was wearing range garb.
He wore a gunbelt and a rifle was out of its scabbard and lying across a flat rock close at hand. As the Wells Fargo man watched, the man in the gulch sat back, holding his coffee cup in one hand, picking up his rifle with the other and dropping it into his lap, shielding it from the fine mist of rain with the edge of the slicker. He gripped the cup again with both hands, savoring its warmth, as he lifted it towards his lips.
Nash stood up, leveled his rifle.
“That’s a good way to stay, mister!” Nash snapped.
The man jerked his head around swiftly and Nash caught a glimpse of stubbled jaw, leathery features, and a curl-brim hat frayed around the edges.
“Just hold it like that and you’ll live longer,” Nash told him, starting down the steep, muddy slope, the rifle covering the man below. “Keep on holdin’ that coffee mug with both hands, savvy?”
The man said nothing but watched carefully as Nash made his way down warily, planting his boots so that the earth did not slide out from under him. Down in the bottom of the gulch, a muddy stream maybe a yard wide roared through, fed by the wash-aways from the mountain slopes.
Nash waded across and up the slope to the man’s camp. He hadn’t moved and he flicked crinkled brown eyes to the Wells Fargo man as Nash stopped about ten feet from him.
“Who are you?”
“Nelson Hayward,” the man replied without hesitation and with a New England accent. “Cattleman ... sometimes drifter ... who’s askin’?”
“Clay Nash. Wells Fargo.”
Hayward arched his eyebrows, still maintaining his squatting position.
“Ah. You’d be involved in that robbery at Signal a couple of days ago.”
Nash nodded. “Maybe you were, too?”
Hayward smiled, showing even white teeth, very much of an oddity in the West at that period. Usually teeth were yellow and broken or missing, for professional dental treatment was rare and held such terrors that even tough, flint-eyed gunfighters quailed at the thought of an hour in the chair. They would prefer to have a pard knock out an aching tooth with a gun butt or knife handle ...
Hayward shook his head at Nash’s suggestion. “No, friend. I’m afraid you have the wrong man. I was in Signal at the time, I admit, and, if pressed, I can give you the name and address of a certain young widow who can vouch for my whereabouts from suppertime till dawn on the night to which you refer. But, being a gentleman, I would rather not—er—compromise the lady.”
“Forget the fancy Boston talk with me, Hayward. It don’t go down easy. Just answer my questions.”
Hayward looked mildly surprised. “I rather thought that’s exactly what I was doing. In fact, I consider that I have been very co-operative, seeing as you have appeared out of nowhere and offered no identification to back your claim as to your identity.”
Nash frowned. “All right. I’ll show you a paper that says who I am. How about you? Got something with your name on it?”
Hayward smiled slowly. “Matter of fact I have. A pay slip from my last place of employment on a ranch outside of Benbow, and two rather affectionate letters from different—ladies—in other parts of the country.”
“Let’s see ’em. And reach for ’em slow.”
Nash glanced at the letters and the pay slip and grunted as he handed them back.
“Your papers?” Hayward asked.
Nash scowled and produced his identification, then he put up the rifle and squatted down by the fire, pointing to the battered coffee pot. “That java looked good and black from up on the rim.”
Hayward found him a tin mug. “Help yourself. Beans are quite fresh. Bought them a day or so ago in Cedar Ridge. Er—you are looking for the thieves from Signal, I take it?”
Nash nodded as he sipped the steaming coffee. He licked his lips. “Damn’ good brew. Yeah. I’ve reason to believe a tough hombre named Sundance Harmer is the leader. Had a pretty definite sighting of a Texan killer named Waco Bright, too, and there’s a kid I’d like to get my hands on and have a damn’ good talk with as well. I figure he could tell me plenty.”
Hayward had stiffened at Nash’s words. He frowned into his coffee and spoke slowly. “’Bout sixteen? Lanky, freckled, rags for clothes?”
“Hell, yeah! You’ve seen him?”
“Day before yesterday. In the hills, back there. Ran into him as we both climbed a narrow trail in an effort to get around a flooded wash. We yarned for a spell while we sheltered under an overhang. He asked a lot of questions. He didn’t say so straight out, but I had the impression he was meeting someone, farther back in the ranges. He mentioned Skillet Canyon and the trestle bridge crossing, but he wouldn’t tell me his interest ...”
“It’s the feller I want. Name’s Larry Holbrook ...”
“Larry! Yes, that’s his name. Nicely mannered, but very nervous.”
Nash was tense now, knowing he was on the right trail, that his hunch was paying off. Hayward told him the area of the mountains where he had seen the kid.
“I was heading down to Cedar Ridge for supplies. While there, I heard of a job going on the Black Crow Ranch the other side of Signal.” He smiled thinly. “We drifters often travel in circles, chasing work, you know.”
Nash nodded. “Didn’t see any groups of men camped anywhere in these mountains?”
“Afraid not. But I believe I did hear Waco Bright was in Cedar Ridge.”
Nash stiffened. “You sure?”
“Pretty much so, Nash. I keep my eyes peeled on my travels. I may not look it to you, but I’ve been riding around the West for more than twenty years now. Never managed to lose my New England accent and it’s caused me some aggravation at times, but the ladies seem to discern a certain amount of charm in it. Well, as I was saying, I keep my eyes peeled. I can handle a gun fairly well, and there have been a few low spots in my life when I have found it necessary to kill a man, either for self-protection or to claim the bounty on his head. Not many, mind you, but a few. At present, my funds are running low, so I make careful note of any faces I may see on my travels—especially the ones with a price tag!”
“So you think you spotted Waco. Where? What part of town?” Nelson Hayward studied Nash’s narrow, mahogany face thoughtfully. “Where’s he wanted?”
“In about five states,” Nash said. “I’m not interested in the money. You want it? Okay, you can have it.”
“Just for the information?”
Nash made an exasperated sound and nodded. “Sure. In writing if you want. And if I nail Waco, it’s still yours.”
“Sounds okay by me.”
Hayward went to his saddlebags and produced writing utensil and paper and dictated what he wanted Nash to write, giving him claim to all bounties payable on the head of Waco Bright. Nash wrote swiftly and signed impatiently.
“All right, dammit, now where did you see him? I could’ve been halfway to Cedar Ridge by now!”
Hayward smiled as he folded the paper. “And had the whole town to search, during which time you would probably spook Waco into running—No, Nash, you’ll find it was worth the wait. Waco was rather heavily involved with a young woman named Tiger Lily in an establishment called The Gilt Dragon.”
“I know it. Obliged, Hayward.”
“Good luck, Nash,” the d
rifter called as Nash started back up the slope. “By the by, The Gilt Dragon employs gunfighters for bouncers. It’s possible Waco may have given them an extra dollar or two to make sure he’s not—disturbed! You be careful now ... I sure could use that bounty ...”
Five – First Down
Jim Hume hurried down the stairs and into the courtyard behind the Denver branch of the Colorado and Federal Bank. Already there were about two dozen men gathered there and the iron spider web of the big crane that had been set up at the nearby railroad depot seemed to tower above and teeter there, watching with a single cold eye from which fell a tear of wire cable, waiting for the arrival of the big box-car-like vehicle crammed into the bank’s courtyard.
The car rested on the bogey wheels of two timber wagons that had been hitched to a double team of mules, twisting out through the guarded gateway into the back street. Hume, sweating, hurried across to the car’s sliding door where two heavily-armed men stood, cradling sawn-off shotguns in their arms. One was gray-haired and leathery-visaged, chewing tobacco. The other was much younger, in his late twenties, tall, solid-looking, with an arrogant tilt to his jaw. Hume came and stood at the door edge, looking up at the men. He was a blocky man, so wide in the shoulder and thick about the middle that he looked shorter than he was. He took off his worn hat and wiped sweat from his square face.
“You fellers about ready?” he asked, flicking flint-like eyes from the young man to the older. “Hal? You okay?”
The gray-haired man spat a stream of tobacco juice and nodded. “Right as I’ll ever be, Mr. Hume.”
Hume still seemed a mite dubious. “You savvy what’s gonna happen once that door’s slid shut? I mean, this car’ll be taken back to the rail depot on the wagons where that special crane’ll lift it to the flatbed wagon on the train and it’ll be bolted on. You won’t be able to open the door anywhere along the way. At Signal, they’ll have another crane ready and it’ll lift the car off the flatbed once the bolts are removed, and then take it on other timber wagons to the bank up there where the manager’ll have the keys to the padlocks on the doors. You’ll be locked in there for three days minimum. I hear there’s been heavy rains up north so if there’s any wash-aways, the train could be delayed and you’ll be locked in there even longer.”
Hal McWhirter spurted another tobacco stream, grinned with brown-stained teeth. “Don’t you worry none, Mr. Hume. Tom an’ me’ll be fine.” He gestured to the younger guard. “Lot of years between us, but we both discovered we’re poker-crazy so the time’ll pass fine for us.”
Tom Slocum grinned and winked at Hume. “Might even get down to bettin’ a box of that gold on the turn of a card, Mr. Hume!”
Hume smiled very faintly, about as much as he ever allowed himself to show humor. “Just so long as it’s all there when it reaches the Signal bank.” He thrust up his right hand and gripped briefly and firmly with Slocum and then with McWhirter. “Hal, thanks again for stepping in when O’Leary took ill. I know it’s right on the eve of your retirement and I was planning on giving you an easy week to finish up with.”
McWhirter laughed, almost swallowing some tobacco juice, and coughed. “Hell, this’ll be a breeze, Mr. Hume! Three, four days of poker and I collect special rates. Be right handy. Married daughter—my only child—wants me to go live with her and she’s havin’ a baby, so I’ll be able to buy her a decent present with the extra money. I appreciate the chance of doin’ this job, Mr. Hume.”
Hume nodded. “Fine, Hal. Good luck. You, too, Tom. Now, if you’ll step back inside, I’ll slide the door across and lock it.”
They took one final look around the courtyard, waved to some Wells Fargo men who called out a few ribald remarks, made a couple of final wise-cracks, and then stood back as Hume nodded and two hefty loaders started the sliding door rumbling across on its wheels and rails. It clanked as it clicked into position and Hume slammed the hasps across the u-bolts, dropped the lower bolt barrels into the slots and pushed the upper ones home. Then he took three heavy, specially-made brass and steel padlocks from one of the Wells Fargo men and snapped them through the u-bolts. He slapped a hand against the door.
“You’re on your way, fellers!” he bawled and heard the faint replies from McWhirter and Slocum inside the sheet-iron lined boxcar. Then Hume stepped back and waved to the man at the gate who, in turn, signaled the teamsters and the whips cracked, the cusses rang out, and finally, the mules slammed into the harness and the wheels of the heavily-laden wagons slowly began to turn.
Men in the yard grabbed the spokes and put their shoulders to the wheels, getting the wagon moving with its heavy load. The iron-shod wheels ground and thundered across the cobbles of the yard and Jim Hume stood back, mopping at sweat on his brow, as he watched.
An anxious man in claw hammer coat and high, starched collar, came across, looking very tense.
“I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Hume,” he said a mite stiffly, “shipping that gold out so early and on a passenger train, yet!”
Hume looked at the banker soberly. “I reckon I do, Mr. McCrae. I’ve been handling Wells Fargo shipments for many years now and my best man, Clay Nash, will be waiting at the other end to make sure the gold is transferred safely to the Signal bank.”
“I only hope they’ve had time to prepare,” McCrae said worriedly. “They weren’t expecting it for another week. Wouldn’t it have been better to delay the shipment rather than putting the date forward?”
Hume shook his head. “No. The outlaws, if they are going to make a try at it, would only wait around until it came. This way, it’ll be safe in the vaults before they can do anything about it.” He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it swiftly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to send a wire to Signal and notify Nash the gold’s on its way.”
Banker McCrae was still shaking his head worriedly as Hume pushed past him and strode towards the courtyard gate.
But at that time Clay Nash was riding into the crooked, muddy main street of Cedar Ridge, shivering under the slicker as the cold rain drove down hard against him. The drizzle had once again turned to a downpour and the street was a quagmire. Folk ran across the planks that had been placed in zigzag fashion at the corners, but these, too, were slippery and many people fell into the mud and slush in their hurry.
Nash carefully walked his mount over some planks near The Gilt Dragon and looked up at the writhing red and gold dragon painted on the false front. The action tilted his hat brim back and water that had collected there, spilled down the back of his neck. He swore at its chill and dismounted at the hitch rail, very tempted by the warm glow showing at the lower floor windows of the girl parlor. The glass was steamed over and he could hear laughter and drunken singing coming from inside.
Seated outside, under the awning, and with a black slicker covering him to the knees, his hands out of sight, was one of the armed bouncers Nelson Hayward had warned him about. He was a hard-eyed, stone-faced man in his late twenties and he watched Nash’s every movement. He stiffened and sat upright in his chair when Nash slid his rifle out of the saddle scabbard before stepping up onto the porch and stomping mud from his boots.
“You aimin’ to go inside, mister?” the bouncer asked tightly and there was a slight, stiff movement under his slicker that likely indicated he had gripped a six-gun he had concealed there.
“What’s it to you?” Nash demanded.
The man nodded towards the Winchester. “That stays outside.”
Nash shrugged. “Sure. Take care of it for me?”
The man merely stared.
Nash smiled faintly. “Be worth a dollar.”
The bouncer nodded. “In that case …”
Nash stepped across as if to prop the rifle against the wall beside the bouncer, but suddenly he tightened his grip on the upper barrel in his left hand and swung the brass-bound butt up in a short, vicious arc. The bouncer was taken completely unawares and Nash heard distinctly the bone in his jaw breaking
as the rifle butt crashed home. The man spilled silently, sideways, out of his chair. Nash paused only long enough to kick the six-gun into the mud of the street and then stepped over the prone body and entered The Gilt Dragon.
As he went inside, he removed his slicker one-handed, draping it carelessly over his left forearm, holding the rifle, cocked in his right hand, raking his cold eyes around the smoke-filled room.
The Oriental gals were being kept mighty busy. Customers waited at the bar, drinking; some gathered round the piano and were singing raucously. No one paid him any particular attention—except the barkeep who swiftly signaled to a bouncer on the first floor landing.
The man spotted Nash right off and came down the stairs, fast, right hand brushing close to the thonged-down six-gun.
“Hey, hold it, mister! No rifles in here!” he bawled, his harsh voice cutting across the laughter, and off-key singing. Some folk heard and stopped to stare, but the cowboys gathered at the piano continued to sing their bawdy songs. “You stay right where you are!”
“Hell with you,” Nash said, walking down the room, rifle coming up in his right hand now, the barrel swinging as his eyes searched for Waco Bright.
“Goddammit, I said to stay right there!”
There was emphasis and an explosive sound to the last word and it brought Nash spinning fast, rifle coming up. The bouncer had started to draw and the nearest men yelled and furniture crashed over as they hit the floor. The Colt came up fast and Nash took two swift steps forward, swung the rifle hard in a blurring arc. The barrel smashed across the man’s head and seemed to bounce off. But the force of the blow spilled him sideways and he fell to one knee, shook his head, and started to bring the gun up.
Nash cursed inwardly. He had hoped to avoid gunfire at this stage: it would warn Waco if he was still here. But there was no choice now. The bouncer was going to shoot no matter what. Nash triggered one-handed and the rifle’s whiplash drowned the flat boom of the Colt. The bouncer spun over backwards, sobbing as lead slammed into his thick body. Nash levered in a fresh shell as men scattered and women began to scream from the floor above. Doors flung open and closed just as quickly. A couple of men ran out and dashed back inside hurriedly. Two more armed bouncers appeared on the balcony and started shooting indiscriminately down into the barroom.
