Clay Nash 12

by Brett Waring

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  When he was given the job of protecting the Gold Train—a locomotive carrying a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of freshly-minted gold coins from Denver to Washington—Wells Fargo agent Clay Nash knew that every outlaw in the country would be tempted to try robbing it. The train itself was well protected by soldiers, Wells Fargo guards and Gatling guns … but there were some mighty ambitious owlhoots out there who would still make a stab at taking the cargo.

  Like the Ghost Riders, for instance.

  The Ghost Riders had been raising hell right across the territory, robbing and killing without mercy. No one knew who they were—they left no clues behind them, and whenever they pulled their jobs they were careful to drape themselves in white sheets to protect their identities and put the fear of God into their victims.

  As it turned out, his hunch was right.

  Clay was blown up, shot and beaten, but still he kept after them, determined to track the Ghost Riders down across this lawless land …

  CLAY NASH 12

  THIS LAWLESS LAND

  By Brett Waring

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Edition: October 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Chapter One – First Word, Last Shot

  The two fugitives were no more than dots to the naked eye as they climbed laboriously up the side of the mountain. They were afoot and leading their mounts. It was difficult to say who were the more tuckered—the men or the horses.

  Clay Nash, standing beside his mount just inside the timberline, lifted the battered army binoculars to his eyes and adjusted focus. The crystal lenses brought the fugitives closer, and he saw that it was Hollis in the lead, more than a hundred feet higher up the slope than Slocum. He kept the glasses on Slocum and studied the man for a spell before lowering them and nodding slowly.

  As he had thought two days ago, he had winged Slocum. The man was favoring his right side and tending to drag the leg. It couldn’t be too bad a wound but it was enough to slow him down. Nash raised the glasses and looked for Hollis again. Yeah, the man had gained another five yards. He was slowly pulling ahead.

  Nash smiled faintly. That was fine with him. If they separated, he would stand more chance of getting them both. He would overhaul Slocum first, of course, and it shouldn’t take much to get the jump on the wounded man. Hollis would be the tough one. He was smart, and fought like a wounded cougar in a corner.

  He would turn everything loose on Nash to avoid capture. So Nash made up his mind that he wouldn’t try to bring the man in alive. His boss, Jim Hume, Chief of Detectives for the Wells Fargo Company, had said: “Bring ’em in alive if you can, dead if you have to, but bring ’em in, Clay.”

  It was the usual edict issued by the tough detective chief but it seemed to have some sort of special significance with the men Nash was following. Hollis and Slocum had robbed a Wells Fargo agency in Baptism Springs, killed two company men and shot an old lady who happened to be coming through the door as they were making their getaway. She would live, but she would walk with a stick for the rest of her life—if she ever came out of the infirmary.

  The agent, Grant Tibbs, had been gun whipped when he had tried to make a grab for one of the killers’ guns when handing over the money bag. He had been lucky not to have been killed but, at that stage there hadn’t been any shooting. Still, Tibbs’ efforts had given the company men a chance to make a try for their guns. They hadn’t been fast enough, but once the shooting started, it had spooked the bandits and they had run, leaving some of the loot behind.

  Nash had been on their trail for three weeks and he figured he had them where he wanted them as he watched the men make their way up the mountain slope. The only thing that puzzled him was why they were on the mountain, heading up for snowline.

  They had had a good lead on him—and still had—and he had figured that they would make for the state line then head south on a direct trail for Mexico. Men who shot old ladies in cold blood couldn’t figure on getting a good reception, even from their own kind. He had reckoned the Rio was the best place for them to make for and he had started south on that assumption. Then, in a remote hamlet called Pearly Gates—a misnomer if ever he had heard one seeing as the settlement was right smack on the edge of an inferno of a desert—he had picked up a sighting of the men.

  They had taken off across the desert, making for the distant mountain range that would take them deep into the heart of Colorado again.

  At first he had figured it was some cunning strategy on Hollis’ part, but now he wasn’t so sure. He had got within gun range of them in the desert and they had traded some lead, during which time he had winged Slocum. They had managed to slip him during the night and now he was closing the gap again. But they seemed to know exactly where they were headed, and that puzzled him.

  Jim Hume was a success as chief of detectives because he was meticulous. When reports came in of robberies and the bandits had been identified, he consulted his huge mass of files that contained all known information on hundreds of outlaws across the country. Even if the law breaker weren’t positively identified, Hume often picked him up from the files simply by the method he used. He was also one of the first law enforcers to use the science of ballistics in the running down and prosecution of outlaws.

  One of his files on Hollis and Slocum had said that they were both Texans and spoke Mexican-Spanish fluently. Colorado was definitely not their stamping ground. They were much more at home in the badlands than in mountains with snow on their peaks. Yet, here they were, turning away from a desert and making for the heart of the mountains.

  Something was queer, Nash reckoned.

  But the main thing was, he was closer than he had been and, within the hour, he would be a damn sight closer. He put away the binoculars then swung lithely into the saddle of his chestnut, heeling it forward across the slope of the range. He could save time by travelling across the rise—not going down first and then up again on the slope where the outlaws were. He was a man who didn’t much like snow, but he had had plenty of it in his time and he could handle it. He figured by breaking out of the timberline, even though he risked being spotted, he could get across the snow and be only a gunshot away from the fugitives by the time they had climbed their peak.

  With any luck, he might even be ahead of them and waiting when they appeared.

  In any case, they were men riding to their deaths.

  Hollis floundered into the first of the snow and swore as the wetness seeped through his trousers to the knees almost immediately. It was slushy at the edge of the snowline but he knew it would be deeper a few yards up. His mount was already jaded and seemed ready to crawl on its knees like one he had seen in a circus in San Antonio when he had been a kid. Hell, that had been a long time back; must be twenty years or more. He didn’t know exactly how old he was and couldn’t even read or write his own name. But he had lived the kind of life that had suited him and not many men could boast that.

  He had been a law unto himself, taken what
he wanted and cracked a few heads when he had had to. On occasion, he had killed, without hesitation or even much feeling after the first few times. After a while, it had merely become a habit: if someone was in his way, the answer was in the Colt strapped to his hip. All he had to do was get it out faster than the other man. And he had a natural aptitude for a clean, swift draw. What was more, he could shoot straight and he knew that was the secret of the whole thing.

  Hollis had come up against men who had been faster than him but he had been the one to walk away simply because he had been able to place his lead exactly where he had wanted it to go.

  He glanced behind as he lay back in the freezing snow and hauled on the reins of his mount. Some distance down the slope, he could see Slocum. Hollis shook his head slowly; he could forget Slocum, he figured. The man was going to be a hindrance. He was having a deal of trouble on the bare slope. Once he got into the snow, it would be the end of him.

  Slocum would flounder on for a spell but then, one time he wouldn’t be able to get up and haul himself out of a drift and he would slowly freeze or choke on snow as he sank deeper into it.

  It was lucky that Hollis had the cash bags on his horse. He had seen as soon as Slocum stopped that bullet that there might be difficulties and he had prepared for them by offering to ‘lighten the load’ on Slocum’s mount. The wounded man had agreed without hesitation. He was a fool and Hollis couldn’t abide fools: they had been together a long time, yet they had often fought and argued because Slocum was so dumb. But with the chance to join a new bunch that called themselves the Ghost Riders, it might be just as well if Slocum didn’t make it.

  That way he wouldn’t give the Ghost leader a bad impression; it could easily rub off on Hollis and the outlaw dearly wanted to become a member of the bunch. Their fame was spreading. Not many had heard of them outside Colorado, but they would. They had been completely successful in everything they had done to date. The secret was supposed to be in the planning.

  They chose their target well ahead of time and worked out every step of the plan, timing things perfectly. They even rode with sheets draped over them, covering their clothes and even the markings on their mounts, though they never rode distinctive horses or did anything that would enable witnesses to pass on any information that could lead to their discovery.

  And they were ruthless. That was the part that appealed to Hollis. If they had to, they wiped out every witness or anyone who happened to get in their way. And then they simply disappeared as mysteriously as they had come, disappeared, and went back to their normal lives and enjoyed the fruits of their labors.

  For the Ghost Riders were ordinary citizens who had turned to crime; but they were strictly amateurs. They worked at their normal jobs until the prospect of a haul appealed to them and then they met and planned the robbery ...

  Hollis stopped dead and cut his thoughts off instantly.

  He had seen a movement on the other slope. Hollis went to ground, lying in the snow and trying to ignore the freezing chill that seeped through his clothing. He wished he had some field glasses to be sure but it looked to him as if—yes, there it was again.

  A movement only slightly below his position but a half mile away. It was a rider. No doubt about that. And it could only be Nash.

  Hollis swore. He recognized the chestnut the man had been forking for two weeks, dogging their tracks and making life hell for them. The outlaw let his gaze travel on ahead of Nash and into the snowline. He nodded to himself, as he guessed at Nash’s strategy.

  The Wells Fargo man was going to hit the snowline then bull his way across. He would be very close. Leastways, he’d be close to Slocum because he was dragging behind so much. But Hollis wouldn’t be around if he could help it.

  Slocum was finished. There was no doubt about it. But he might as well be useful before he died. It had been Hollis’ plan to put a bullet through Slocum and no longer have to worry about the man slowing him down. However, he felt he could leave him to Nash, and while the Wells Fargo man finished him off, Hollis would use the time to lose himself among the ranges.

  He glanced back down the slope to where Slocum was just beginning to flounder and struggle into the first of the snow. The man looked up at his pard and made a feeble gesture for help but Hollis chose to interpret it as a wave and gave a mocking farewell salute in return. His mouth pulled into a crooked grin as he turned back to his horse and dragged the animal around some rocks, putting the boulders between himself and Nash on the other hill.

  Then he made his way swiftly towards the peak. With any luck, he would be over and dropping down the other side before Nash caught up with Slocum and engaged the man in a final shooting match.

  Clay Nash paused at the edge of the snow and, standing in the shelter of one of the few trees, pulled out the field glasses and swept the slopes on the other peak. He was just in time to see Hollis’ horse disappearing.

  He changed focus and moved the glasses to a point lower down. He picked out Slocum easily and saw the man was already down on his belly, struggling weakly, and trying to pull his injured leg out of a drift. His horse had shied away and was floundering and slithering back to the snowline, away from the clammy, wet slush. Nash saw the alarm flash onto Slocum’s gray face as he realized his mount was getting away.

  His mouth opened and a few seconds later Nash heard the faint sounds of his yell. But the horse was out of the snow and back among the trees. It didn’t intend going back up the slope, that was obvious. Slocum fought and struggled his way forward, waving and shouting to Hollis for help.

  But there was no help coming from Hollis. The man was running out on his pard.

  Nash lowered the glasses, his mouth grim. It was typical of Hollis: he had always been a hard bastard. But it told Nash what he wanted to know. Hollis had the money from the Baptism Springs agency. He wouldn’t have run off if Slocum had been carrying it, or even half of it, in his saddlebags.

  So Hollis was the one Nash wanted. Slocum would keep.

  Nash stuffed the glasses into his saddlebag and urged his chestnut forward and into the first of the slush. There was a natural rock bridge fifty feet above him that joined the two peaks. It was covered in snow but he hoped it wouldn’t be too deep a drift, because he could save several hours’ climbing if he could cross it to the other peak.

  And Hollis wouldn’t be expecting him.

  The outlaw saw the top of the peak as he rounded another clump of boulders and he grinned tightly, gasping a little in the thin air. He was going to make it.

  He no longer looked back to where Slocum floundered around. Some time earlier he had heard the man yelling something about his horse having run off. That would be typical of Slocum, letting his mount get away. It was one of the things Hollis had been guarding against when he had transferred the money to his own saddlebags. He had pulled Slocum out of many a scrape over the years—but no more.

  The Ghost Riders wouldn’t have thanked him for bringing such a fool to them.

  Hollis turned his attention to the peak and lay back in the snow, hauling on the reins, fighting the horse as it plunged and fought through the deep drift. There was a very sharp wind and it chilled his drenched clothing, making him shiver uncontrollably.

  It was a struggle; he rolled and twisted and cursed and kicked and fought to get the animal through the deep drift. At one stage, the powdery snow covered his face and he reared up, choking, lashing out in fright, afraid that he might sink down and be smothered. But the fact that the snow was getting more powdery meant that it was packed tighter and he was able to get enough purchase to heave up and grab at the trailing reins of the horse that had started to swing away from him.

  Muttering murderous threats, he made one more try and struggled backwards, yelling and spitting savagely at the horse. He whipped off his hat and slapped it violently across the muzzle. The horse reared and Hollis threw himself back bodily, gaining six feet as the hoofs struck down and deep into the drift. He hit the horse again and whe
n it reared, he used his weight to pull the animal forward while it was up on its hind legs.

  It worked twice more and then the animal refused to be baited. But, by that time it didn't really matter: they were at the peak, the snow was less deep and there was solid footing, even if wind lashed at him and sent him staggering to his knees at one stage. He got up, swaying against the pressure, and wrapped the reins tightly about his hand. The horse, now that it could feel rock and frozen ground beneath its hoofs, no longer fought him. It came willingly enough though it showed its huge teeth and whinnied in protest at the whip of the wind.

  There was a moaning sound, mixed with a high, keening scream as the wind whistled through some of the draws. Clinging to the saddlehorn, his chest tight with the pain of breathing the thin air, Hollis stood and looked around. He smiled tightly. He had made it. Soon, he would be in warmer country, then with just a little more climbing he ought to come to the old ghost town he had been told about.

  He had been warned that the Riders might not be there when he arrived for they only met when they were planning a job. But that was all right with Hollis: he could camp in the old buildings and rest until they arrived. Then he would join them and ...

  “Judas Priest!” he breathed suddenly, swaying in against his quivering horse, his hand dropping instinctively towards his gun butt.

  Clay Nash had appeared from behind a big clump of black rocks and was riding towards him.

  Just as Hollis realized the Wells Fargo agent must have ridden across that snow ridge between the peaks, Nash fired his first shot. Hollis’ horse grunted and staggered back three steps, shook its head, then went down to its knees as the forelegs folded. It happened so fast that Hollis was still holding the saddlehorn and was dragged with it. Then, as the second bullet passed only inches over his head, he felt the horse starting to topple in his direction. He jumped away from the pressure against his body and dragged iron, shooting off two wild shots.