Clay Nash 15

by Brett Waring

  Nash dived for the shelter of an overturned table, snapped off two shots and saw splinters fly into a man’s face. The bouncer screamed and dropped his gun as he clawed at his bleeding forehead and, blinded by blood, staggered along the stairs, and crashed through the railing and tumbled onto the bar top. The second man dropped flat and Nash saw him dragging round a twin-barreled, sawn-off shotgun. Nash dived away from the table as the shotgun thundered and blew it to splinters.

  Lunging up through the gunsmoke, he braced the rifle butt into his hip, fired and levered three fast shots. The bouncer lurched and spun away, his sawn-off falling down into the chaos of the room.

  Then, through the smoke and rushing girls and men, Nash caught a glimpse of his quarry. Waco Bright, half dressed, holding his boots in one hand, his gun rig in the other, was crouching, running along the corridor, as far back from the edge of the balcony as he could get.

  “Hold it, Waco!” Nash yelled, covering him with the rifle.

  Waco triggered through the bottom of the holster he held and the lead passed close enough to Nash’s face to make him jump back. Then Waco had the six-gun out and was blazing shot after shot at Nash as he ran along the balcony, heading for the side door. Nash winced as flying splinters stung his cheeks, but he managed to get off one more shot and then lunged for the street door that was jamming up with men trying to get out. He roared and clubbed his way through with the rifle and skidded on the muddy, wet boards, leapt off the end and ran into the side alley just as Waco burst out of the door on the landing at the top of the stairs.

  The Texan spotted Nash as the Wells Fargo man rounded the building, fired and notched back the hammer for a second shot. Nash crouched, rifle butt braced into his hip. He triggered, levered, triggered, levered again and fired off his last shot. The first two had already hit home and Waco Bright lurched back across the small landing, slammed into the clapboards and then bounced off them again. His knees buckled and he plummeted forward, coming headfirst down the stairs in an untidy somersault to land in a bloody heap at Nash’s feet.

  The Wells Fargo man had dropped his slicker and was drenched now as he stood in the rain, threw his rifle into his left hand and palmed up his Colt smoothly, the hammer notching back, as he prodded Waco with his boot.

  The man was still alive, though he was coughing copious amounts of blood and his throat was bullet-torn. Ignoring the mud, Nash knelt and placed his Colt barrel against Waco’s bruised forehead.

  “Who was in that Signal raid with you, Waco? Sundance Harmer?”

  The Texan merely stared with glazing eyes, burning with intense hatred.

  “You ain’t dead yet,” Nash said. “I could make your last few minutes pure hell.”

  There was a flare of fear in Waco’s eyes and he tried to speak but only a guttural, bubbling sound came out. Then resignation filled his eyes and the look on his face told Nash to do his damnedest.

  Clay Nash sighed and stood up, lowering the gun hammer and putting the Colt back in leather. He knew he would get nothing out of Waco. Then he knelt again, went swiftly through the man’s pockets, found a single double-eagle gold coin. He turned it to the faint light spilling into the alley and saw the mint mark under the left hand eagle. ‘DM’. Denver Mint...

  Nash smiled faintly at the dying man as he held the coin between thumb and forefinger. “All the proof I need, Waco. You got this from the Signal safe. A shipment of double eagles went there with a crack in the die of the mint mark across the M. It’s been remedied now. This nails you like an eyewitness.”

  Waco tried to rip out a final curse at Nash, couldn’t manage it and began to cough. He died seconds later in a welter of blood.

  Nash stepped over the body and climbed the stairs. The girls and cowboys who had gathered there hastily made way for him as he pushed inside. He picked up the boots Waco had dropped during his flight. In the arch against the high heels, beneath the covering of chocolate mud from Cedar Ridge’s streets, was a thick blob of red clay.

  Just like that on the ledgers and gunnysack left by Larry Holbrook on the floor of the Signal cafe.

  It seemed that if he could locate the area in the mountains where the red clay abounded, he would find the bandits’ hideout.

  Nash went over to the upturned table, retrieved his slicker, then dropped Waco’s boots and, under the silent, anxious stares of the customers, left The Gilt Dragon as swiftly as he had arrived. As he mounted, he glanced at the men carrying Waco’s body to the undertaker’s and thought that Nelson Hayward would be considerably richer, anyway.

  “Mister?”

  Nash jerked around, hand dropping to gun butt as he felt someone touch his leg. He looked down at a small ivory-skinned Chinese girl standing in the mud beside his horse. She wore a highly-decorated robe which she clutched over her small breasts.

  “Mister, you lawman?” she lisped.

  “Kind of. Why?”

  “That Waco—bad man. He do bad things to girls. Me, too.”

  “He’s dead now. You’ve got nothin’ more to worry about.”

  “He real bad man, had everyone scared of him. We all glad see him dead.”

  “Fine. Now, I’m gettin’ mighty wet here, miss ...”

  “You look for his friends? Sundance, maybe?”

  Nash stiffened. “Damn right! You know where he is?”

  “Waco get drunk, talk of robbery at Signal. He say Sundance an’ others go down to Benbow before he rob train. They all to meet in mountains first. At cave.”

  “Know where the cave is?”

  She shook her head swiftly. Tm sorry.”

  “No matter. You did real well. Here. Much obliged.”

  Nash flicked her the gold coin and she deftly plucked it out of the air, beginning to smile as he turned the horse and rode swiftly away down the street through the pelting rain.

  Six – Skillet Canyon

  Larry Holbrook was sure surprised to come across the Signal telegraph operator down in Benbow and when he spotted the man hunched over a drink in the bar of the Special Saloon, he stopped dead halfway down the stairs, turned swiftly and hurried back up.

  He ran along the landing to the door of room nine and hammered on the panel.

  “What the hell?” asked Sundance Harmer from inside.

  “Sundance! It’s me!” Larry called.

  “Godammit, kid, I said not to disturb me for the next hour! I’ll bust your tail for this! Now git!”

  Larry rapped again. “I—I think you better come, Sundance. Could be trouble.”

  There were muffled curses from in the room and then the door jerked open and Sundance Harmer stood there in his underwear, hair tousled, face flushed with anger. Behind him a bored-looking, half-naked girl reclined on a tawdry bed.

  “By hell, kid!” the outlaw snarled but Larry swallowed and, although he flinched from the upraised hand, held his ground. Sundance frowned and held the blow he had been about to deliver. “Let’s have it and it better be good!”

  “The telegraph operator from Signal,” stammered the youth. “He’s downstairs. At the bar. He’s seen me.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I guess he knows Nash must’ve been lookin’ for me after I quit town. He looked like he was gonna say somethin’ to me but I skipped up here.”

  Sundance cursed. “And if he’s standin’ at the bottom of the stairs now he knows you got friends here and you’ve led him right to us. Not smart, kid!”

  Larry paled and spun about. He sucked down a breath when he saw the stoop-shouldered frame of the middle-aged telegraphist coming slowly up the stairs, swaying a little.

  Sundance saw the man, too, stepped back into the room and appeared again, holding his Colt down at his side. His slitted eyes watched the operator approach.

  “Hey, kid,” the man said, words a little slurred. “Ain’t you the one Hank Doyle caught in the Wells Fargo agency at Signal?” He nodded, continuing, answering himself. “Sure you are. That Wells Fargo detective feller, Nash, was lookin’
all over for you. What you run out for, huh? He left word he’d pay fifty bucks to any man bringing him word of you, so I reckon I can claim that reward?”

  “All you can lay claim to, amigo, is an ounce of lead!” snapped Sundance stepping out into the passage, gun hammer cocked back. “Get in here, you!”

  The man paled and his jaw hung slackly and he seemed to have difficulty in focusing on Sundance. The outlaw turned to the percenter.

  “Beat it.”

  The girl asked no questions; she grabbed her clothes and slipped hurriedly outside. Sundance motioned for Larry to close the door. The telegraphist licked his lips, hands raised.

  “Listen, I...”

  “What the hell you doin’ down here?” demanded the outlaw.

  “Uh? Oh—sister was dyin’. I come down to be with her but was too late. I been—havin’ a few comfortin’ drinks, is all. I just spotted the kid. But, listen, I can keep my mouth shut if you want it that way!” He laughed, nervously. “I was just jokin’ about claimin’ that fifty.”

  “Sure you were,” Sundance told him, looking grim. “And I can guarantee you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  He raised the gun and the man stepped back against the wall, flicking his wide eyes to the pale faced youth.

  “Please, kid! Do somethin’! I didn’t mean nothin’!”

  “Gee, Sundance, I didn’t think you’d ...”

  “There you go, dammit! You’ve called me by name now. That fixes it. He has to go.”

  Larry gulped. “I—I ...”

  The telegraphist was sweating now, arms shaking as he held them above his head. “Aw, listen, I won’t say nothin’ to Nash or anyone else! He don’t have to know you’re in this neck of the woods, Sundance.” Then his face brightened a little. “Fact is, I can mebbe give you some info you can use—if you’ll listen to reason.”

  “Information like what?”

  “First off, Nash gunned down Waco Bright in Cedar Ridge just a few hours ago. Came down the wire. Operator here’s a pard of mine an’ I was sharin’ a jug with him when it come through...”

  Sundance stiffened at the man’s words and Larry glanced at him sharply. The outlaw’s eyes slitted as he continued to look hard at the telegraphist.

  “You’ll need somethin’ more positive than that to keep you alive, mister. I’m interested, but it’ll have to be good.”

  The operator smiled nervously. “Well, maybe this will. I was the one sent Nash’s wires to Jim Hume in Denver and took the replies. There was a lot of wire-burnin’ about a secret shipment of gold comin’ up in a special express car ...”

  He paused and looked shrewdly at Sundance and saw right off he had the outlaw’s full attention.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “Well, sir, if you’re a reasonable man, I can tell you just when they’re gonna make that shipment.”

  “Already know.”

  The telegraph operator shook his head. “Nope. That schedule been’s changed from that paper that was in the safe. It’s already on its way up here. On a passenger train! Now ain’t that worth somethin’? Huh?”

  By the time Clay Nash reached Cedar Ridge, Sundance and his crew had left.

  The big Wells Fargo agent arrived in the midst of yet another rain squall and the streets were deserted. He rode alone down the twisting muddy thoroughfare and headed the mount for the open doors of the livery. He had long ago dried out over a fire and put his slicker back on, but now his clothing was damp with sweat generated by the heavy garment and he loosened the tie-thong at the collar as he dismounted in the aisle and waited for the stable hand to come shuffling down towards him, rubbing his rheumatic hands together. The oldster nodded civilly.

  “Sonofabitch of a day, ain’t it?” he greeted. “In fact, it’s been a sonofabitch these past two weeks. Rain’s hardly let up. Gonna wash the goddam mountain away if it don’t stop soon, mark my words. Already havin’ falls out around Skillet Canyon, I hear ... What’ll it be, anyways? Grain an’ groom?”

  “That’s it. And mebbe some information.” Nash showed the man a silver dollar, held between thumb and forefinger. The oldster’s eyes glowed with sudden interest and he waited patiently. “Lookin’ for a hard hombre named Sundance Harmer. Likely have a small bunch with him, one a kid, named Larry Holbrook.”

  The stable hand sighed and started to shake his head before Nash had finished speaking.

  “Too late, mister. They’ve long gone. Pulled out last night an’ left a near-dead man behind.”

  Nash stiffened. “Who did they try to kill?”

  The stable hand replied: “Feller from Signal, telegraph operator. Come on down to bury his sister. Dunno the full story, but he was shot an’ left for dead in the alley behind the saloon. Swamper found him this mornin’, barely alive. But Doc Bean says he’ll pull through. He’ll live to give evidence against the sidewinder who plugged ’im, if they catch ’im of course.” He squinted at Nash. “You law?”

  “This wounded man at the sawbones’ now?” Nash asked, ignoring the question.

  The stable hand nodded. “Block down, turn left and it’s halfway up the street. Got a shingle outside.” He looked hungrily at the silver dollar and Nash flicked it to him. The man’s rheumatic hands had no trouble in plucking it out of mid-air and making it disappear into his shirt pocket in a flash. He grinned and winked at Nash. “I’ll tend to your mount.”

  “Have him ready to go soon as you can. Could be I’ll be pulling out pretty soon.”

  Nash found the doctor’s house easily enough and, after showing his identification, the rotund medic showed him to a back bedroom where the telegraph operator lay on a cot, chest heavily bandaged, face gaunt and grayish, looking listless. He swiveled his eyes towards the big Wells Fargo man and it took a spell for recognition. Then he gave a start and raised his head off the striped pillow. The doctor moved to him swiftly and gently pressed his shoulder back.

  “Easy, man, easy,” he said quietly and shot Nash a hard look. “You go easy with him, too, hear? He’s a long way from bein’ out of the woods yet.”

  “I won’t be long,” Nash said.

  “Know that,” the doctor said, taking out his pocket watch. “I’m givin’ you five minutes.”

  He walked out, waving Nash’s protests aside. When he had closed the door the Wells Fargo man turned to the wounded operator.

  “I don’t aim to waste any of that five minutes, mister. You know me. What happened to you?”

  “Sundance sh—shot me,” rasped the man.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged and then winced, gasping aloud as the pain knifed through him. “I—I recognized the kid—that Larry Holbrook. Followed him an’ he went to a room—in the sal—saloon where Sundance was. Guess he wanted to make sure I didn’t talk.”

  Nash frowned at him. “Just like that? He shot you?”

  “Drug me out to the alley an’ called his pards. They plugged me an’ then lit out. The kid with ’em.”

  Nash was silent a spell, conscious that the minutes were ticking away. “Seems to me like there should be more to it than that. I know Sundance is a cold-blooded sonuver, but I don’t see that he’d figure you that much of a risk. Unless somethin’ else happened. Something you’re not telling me about...?”

  Nash leaned closer and the man looked away swiftly, guilty. The Wells Fargo man thrust his face close to the wounded man’s.

  “You know the clock’s on me. I can’t waste time. You talk and you talk pronto or you’re gonna run into more pain than you figured existed in this world. Now, I ain’t foolin’, mister. You done somethin’ to make Sundance put a bullet in you like that. What was it?”

  Nash pulled the sheets down and rested fingers on the edge of the bandages covering the man’s wounded chest.

  The operator’s eyes bulged in terror and his breath came raggedly. He rolled his eyes towards the door.

  “Sure, you can yell. But it’ll be one almighty cry of pain if you do,” Nash threatened.

&n
bsp; The telegraph operator looked swiftly away from Nash’s hard, determined face. His breath came in short, ragged gasps and he began to tremble in fear.

  “All right—I—I kinda let slip what was in them wires you—you an’ Jim Hume traded ...”

  Nash’s mouth tightened. “About the gold shipment?”

  The man nodded miserably, cringing a little.

  “Tried to save your hide, did you?” Nash asked quietly, and he saw the surprise in the other’s eyes; the man had expected some violent reaction from him. Nash stood slowly. “Guess you had to try somethin’, but it didn’t do you any good, did it? Sealed your fate if anythin’. Sundance tried to kill you so you’d never be able to talk afterwards and say he led a raid on that train. That is what he’s got in mind, I take it?”

  “Yeah. Gonna try an’ stop it at the trestle bridge over Skillet Canyon. There was—was talk about—blowin’ the bridge.”

  “Judas Priest! That express car’s hooked up to a passenger train now!”

  The man nodded again. “The kid was givin’ Sundance an argument about that when they shot me.”

  “Dammit! I better get a wire off to Gentry in Signal. He’s closer to Skillet Canyon than I am ... He can take a posse ... What’s wrong?”

  The wounded man was shaking his head on the pillow. “Wires are down. Happened durin’ the night the doc said. Landslide came down and carried away a whole line of poles.”

  Nash swore. “Then I’d better get movin’.”

  He turned just as the door opened and the medic came bustling in holding his watch and telling him his time was up.

  “You could be right, Doc,” Nash said as he pushed by hurriedly. “But not just for me. There’s maybe forty-fifty folk with time fast runnin’ out an’ I’ll have to ride like hell if I’m gonna do anythin’ about it!”