Clay Nash 12

by Brett Waring

  Nash veered away as the lead sang past and his rifle snapped up again. He beaded the running Hollis and fired, just as the man hurled himself over some rocks. Nash’s lead screamed away in ricochet and some chips of black rock fell to the snow in a fancy pattern. The Wells Fargo man instinctively kneed his mount away as Hollis squirmed around and came up shooting. His lead was close, one bullet tearing into Nash’s warbag.

  The outlaw fired again and Nash jerked and almost fell from the saddle as the bullet hit his rifle barrel and snapped it from his grip. Fingers numbed from the shock that ran up his arms, Nash lay along the neck of the racing chestnut and fumbled for his Colt—cursing the numbness that didn’t allow him to grip it.

  Hollis fired again, then there was a pause and Nash knew the man must be reloading. He kneed the chestnut around and, Colt in hand and hammer cocked, he ran the animal back towards the rock shelter. Hollis heard him coming and snapped the loading-gate closed. He brought up his head and threw himself backwards as he caught a glimpse of the huge chestnut rising into the air immediately in front of him.

  As it sailed over him he fired a hasty shot at the massive target. Hollis couldn’t understand how his shot could have missed but the horse didn’t falter and then he caught a glimpse of Nash’s hard face as the agent leaned out of leather and blasted two shots downwards.

  The first bullet thudded into the ground beside Hollis but the second took him in the side and he gave a grunt as he felt as though he had been driven into the ground. He rolled onto his belly, his hand clawing at the wound. It already felt as if some sort of steel stake was impaling him. But he kicked and rolled and wedged himself among the rocks, bringing up his gun and triggering.

  Nash had already turned his mount and was galloping towards him. Hollis’ bullet was wild, so he notched back the hammer again and fired, but Nash had anticipated it and jumped the chestnut to one side. Aware that he had only one shot left in the chamber, Hollis panicked and reared up, turning to run and trying to leap over the rocks behind him.

  He emerged just as Nash lifted the chestnut and the animal’s forehooves struck Hollis in the face. Blood sprayed as he was sent hurtling to crash among the rocks. Clay Nash triggered at the same time and the outlaw’s body jerked once, the back arching violently, and then was still. Nash hauled rein and quit leather fast, coming back on the run and holding his cocked Colt ready as he approached from the side.

  But there was no need for caution. Hollis was dead.

  Nash thumbed open the loading gate on his Colt, held the barrel into the air and turned the cylinder slowly, allowing the empty shells to spill out one by one. Then he shucked new cartridges from his belt loops and pushed them into the chambers. Fully loaded again, he walked to the dead horse and looked in the saddlebags: the money from the Baptism Springs agency was there. He took the bags, slung them over his saddle, then tethered the animal while he picked up his rifle and examined it closely.

  Luckily, there was no damage. Hollis’ bullet had struck part of the octagonal barrel above the woodwork. There was a gray streak of lead showing on the blued metal but that was all. Nash worked the lever, jacked out the few remaining shells, thumbed them back in through the loading gate, then added fresh loads from his belt until the tubular magazine was filled.

  Nash sighed and went over the peak, warily looking for some sign of Slocum.

  The man was still a black shape down the slope, lying on his face in the snow drift where he had been when his mount had run off. Nash had the rifle cocked and ready to fire, his finger on the trigger as he slowly approached. He made a descending circle, weaving out to the side so that he edged past Slocum and came in on him from slightly below.

  There had been no movement from the man. But Nash wasn’t taking any chances. He knew the outlaw hadn’t had time to freeze to death, and that wound in his hip hadn’t been fatal. He might have passed out from sheer exhaustion, but he might also be just playing possum. Nash didn’t aim to take any chances.

  He walked forward slowly, slightly bent, his rifle butt braced into his hip, his eyes and senses alert. Slocum wasn’t moving. Nash wasn’t even sure if the man could breathe. The way his face was buried in the snow, it was possible he had collapsed from exhaustion and smothered himself, too weak to turn over and lift his nose and mouth clear of the slush.

  Then Slocum moved fast. He whirled towards Nash, his right hand appearing from under his body and his gun blasting. Nash flung himself up the slope so that he was shooting while he was on an angle. His lead tore into Slocum, spinning the man back three feet and sending blood spurting across the snow.

  His eyes were wide open and his mouth worked wildly as he tried to choke out a scream of pain. But blood spilled over his lips and slid down his stubbled chin. Nash levered in a fresh shell and came forward steadily. He stood on the man’s six-gun and forced it deeply into the snow. Then he prodded the dying man with the rifle muzzle.

  Slocum moaned and his bloody fingers lifted away from his chest. His eyes widened and came into focus as he coughed more blood and stared at Nash.

  “Fool play, Slocum,” Nash told him.

  “H-had to—t-try,” Slocum stammered, the words punctuated by coughing.

  Nash nodded in understanding and eased down the hammer on the rifle.

  “H-help—m-m-me,” gasped Slocum.

  Nash shook his head slowly.

  “Ain’t nothin’ I can do, amigo. Sorry. You want somethin’? Water? Smoke?”

  Slocum, his face very gray and etched deeply with pain, shook his head slowly. He tried to grip Nash’s trouser leg but he couldn’t reach.

  Nash squatted.

  “If it’s bad pain,” he said slowly, speaking very softly, “and if you want me to—I’ll end it for you. Make it quick.”

  Slocum seemed to consider the proposal but he made no reply as his body shook and bright blood began pouring from his throat.

  “Sure there’s nothin’ you want? Any messages for anyone?”

  Slocum turned his head slowly towards Nash then, stared at him for a moment then nodded slowly.

  “G-got a wife in—Am-Amarillo ... Kid, too. I—I ain’t forgot ’em—b-but I never sent ’em much …”

  “I’ll get in touch with her,” Nash promised. “You want her to have anything of yours?”

  “W-watch ...” He fumbled feebly at his shirt pocket and Nash pulled out an engraved silver watch. It was fine quality and had likely been stolen by Slocum from some luckless victim, but he would see that it reached the man’s wife in Amarillo.

  A slip of paper fell out of the man’s pocket and Nash picked it up. Through the soggy red stain he could just make out two words: Ghost Riders. And there were some initials below but they were impossible to make out clearly. It could have been a G or a C or an O, even a Q, followed by—but it was too formless for Nash to hazard a guess. He held the paper in front of Slocum’s glazing eyes.

  “What’s this, Slocum? ‘Ghost Riders’—what’s that?”

  Slocum swiveled his glazing eyes to Nash’s face and his bloody lips moved and his body shook. Nash expected to hear the man coughing but there was only a gusty wheezing. He was shocked to realize that Slocum was laughing.

  “What the hell?”

  Then the coughing started and it was a long time before it eased. Nash knew that Slocum had very little time left.

  “What does ‘ghost riders’ mean?” Nash snapped. “It must be somethin’ really good to make you laugh in your condition, Slocum.”

  “Y-you won’t—laugh,” Slocum gasped. “We—we was g-g-gonna j-j-join ’em—an’—Hollis is a bastard. He run out.”

  The words came out clearly and distinctly, without a falter, and then Slocum reared up and pointed straight ahead, his eyes staring out of his head like marbles. He flopped back and Nash heard the familiar death rattle.

  Sometime between the moment of Slocum’s death and when Nash smoothed over the crude grave he dug for the man in the snow, he lost the piece of paper.


  Then he climbed back over the mountain, buried Hollis in the snow, mounted his chestnut and began to work his way down the mountain slope, still wondering what ‘Ghost Riders’ meant.

  Chapter Two – Big Chore

  The chestnut was almost dead on its feet when Nash rode the animal into Baptism Springs. He wasn’t exactly feeling too well himself.

  There were long hard trails behind him and he was looking forward to some leave when he got back to Denver. But first he had to return the stolen agency money to Grant Tibbs and get a receipt for it. Afterwards, he would likely sell the chestnut and then board the train to Denver. It wouldn’t be a straight run, of course. The Baptism Springs train was only a feeder, running along a spur track to join up with the main Denver and Rio Grande Railroad at Prairie Mound.

  He looked around the mean street as the deep shadows crawled across from the ramshackle buildings; the sun was going out in a blaze of crimson and gold that evening. Baptism Springs wasn’t much of a place. Nash wondered how much longer Wells Fargo would keep an agency operating there. The stage run was finished; it had been for six months, ever since the railroad had completed the spur track from Prairie Mound. But the agency operated mostly as an express forwarding unit, bonding goods and moneys in the green, iron-bound boxes of the company and shipping them on trains to Denver and points south.

  Grant Tibbs had run the agency when the stage was still operating and he was said to be bitter about being left there on his own. It was a very small agency, for there wasn’t a lot of business, and Tibbs found it mighty boring at times. Still, he wasn’t doing so badly. The company had cut his pay but it hadn’t been as big as it might have been and Tibbs was at least grateful for that much. However, he wasn’t showing much gratitude when Nash stomped wearily into his small office and dumped the moneybags onto his cluttered desk.

  Tibbs was a lean man, just under six feet, rawboned, and had a look of the outdoors to him that didn’t really go with his job. Once he had been a company driver and had worked his way through shotgun guard to agency clerk and finally, Wells Fargo agent in that part of the Rockies. It was quite a senior position and, in the heyday of the stagecoaches, he had had a staff of nine. In his thirties and seeing himself at a dead end, his grim face made him look a lot older and there was a narrowing of his pale amber eyes that puzzled Nash: it was almost as if the man were antagonistic to him.

  And yet he was returning the company’s stolen goods.

  Nash understood right away. That was the trouble. Grant had been responsible for the money and it had been stolen from his agency. Now Nash was bringing it back: it would be another mark against him on his company record.

  “Check it through, Grant, and see if it’s all there,” Nash said, too weary to worry about Tibbs’ feelings one way or another. The man could be as bitter as hell for all Nash cared. He just wanted a bath, a shave, a haircut—and a nice long sleep.

  “What about the robbers?” Tibbs asked, making no move to reach for the bags.

  “Dead.”

  The agent’s eyebrows arched.

  “Both of ’em?”

  “Yeah, both of ’em. You gonna count that? I’m beat.”

  Grant Tibbs stirred in his chair and reached for the bags.

  “Yeah, sure. Take the weight off your feet, Nash. You been gone a couple of weeks. Hard trail, I guess.”

  Nash nodded as Tibbs started counting, dropped into a chair and stretched out his long legs as he pulled the makings from his shirt pocket. There was just about enough tobacco for a single cigarette and his fingers were stiff and clumsy as he twisted up a lumpy smoke and lit it with his last vesta.

  By that time Grant had finished counting and he pulled a ledger towards him, flicked it open to a marked page and checked some figures. He looked up.

  “About fifty bucks missin’, but that’d be near enough. Either got lost during the robbery or they spent it someplace. Bribin’ a rancher to get ’em food or fresh horses, you know …”

  Nash nodded. “Okay. Give me a receipt and fill out the report form and I’ll sign it.”

  “There bounties on Hollis and Slocum?” Tibbs asked as he wrote.

  Nash snapped his gaze up and stared hard at the agent. Tibbs went on writing for a few seconds and then his pen slowed and he looked up, frowning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How’d you know the names?”

  Tibbs stiffened. He frowned more deeply.

  “What names?”

  “Hollis and Slocum.”

  The man looked perplexed but Nash thought he saw a hint of wariness there, too.

  “Didn’t you ...?”

  Nash shook his head emphatically.

  After a spell, Tibbs shrugged. “I dunno then. Someone told me. Someone mentioned the names—Hollis and Slocum. It could’ve been someone in town who saw them ridin’ out. They’d lost their masks by that time, I hear. I thought it was you?”

  “Not me. And no one mentioned their names to me when I came here. It was only after I got close enough to trade lead that I recognized ’em.”

  Tibbs shrugged again. “Well, I sure dunno, but for a couple of weeks I’ve been thinkin’ of ’em as Hollis and Slocum. I guess that was them?”

  Nash nodded slowly, staring at the agent through the cigarette smoke.

  “Yeah. Couple of Texan hell raisers. We’ve had a file on ’em in Denver for a long time. I’ve read it. Which is why I couldn’t figure why they were running into the mountains instead of making a clear run down to the Rio. Mexico seems more like their kinda place than the Rockies.”

  “Just tryin’ to shake you, I guess,” Tibbs said, starting to fill out the report form again.

  “Nope. I said I couldn’t figure out why they were headed that way. But I know now.”

  Tibbs snapped his head up. His eyes flicked and then he sat back in his chair and gave Nash a somewhat cold look.

  “Listen, Nash, I dunno what you’re gettin’ at. But I don’t like the way you’re kinda hintin’ around about things. I wish you’d just come right out and say somethin’ if you’ve got anythin’ to say to me.”

  Nash returned the stare, leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray at the edge of the desk. He yawned and scrubbed a hand down his stubbled face.

  “Aw, I dunno that I’m trying to say anythin’ in particular, Tibbs. Just talkin’; thinkin’ aloud, I guess, about some of the things that puzzle me. Too damn weary to get into any kind of a hassle.”

  Tibbs nodded curtly, accepting Nash’s explanation. But he remained unsmiling.

  “What were you sayin’ about you knowin’ why Hollis and Slocum were headed into the mountains?”

  “Yeah. After I nailed Hollis, I went back to take a look at Slocum. I’d winged him days earlier and Hollis had left him in the snow. He tried to nail me and I shot him through the lungs. He took a while to die and asked me to get his watch to his wife and kid in Amarillo, which I aim to do. But I pulled a piece of paper from his pocket when I got the watch and it had ‘Ghost Riders’ written on it …”

  Nash broke off abruptly as Tibbs straightened swiftly in his chair at the mention of ‘Ghost Riders’. The agent seemed a little shaken but he tried to cover by an act of indifference. “What’s wrong?” Nash asked.

  “Well, it’s like the title of one of them dime novels,” Tibbs answered. He fumbled around with the report papers and the pen and ink. “But it’s a name I’ve heard.”

  Nash showed interest.

  “Go on.”

  “Aw, just a name. Not too long ago. Was in connection with a—train or bank—robbery or somethin’. Not round these parts. Up in the northern Rockies, around Sawmill Bend, if I recollect right. Bunch of riders wearing masks and sheets. Dunno if they called themselves the Ghost Riders or if someone else dubbed ’em that.”

  “Well, wearing a sheet over you might be pretty smart at that. It’d hide your clothes clear down to your boots, even the shape of your body. If it was big
enough, it’d cover your saddle and some of your hoss, too. Make it kinda hard to give a good description.”

  Tibbs agreed.

  “Does make sense at that. But what’ve Hollis and Slocum got to do with the Ghost Riders? They only wore kerchiefs over their faces when they hit the agency. No sheets or nothin’ like that.”

  “Slocum said they were planning on joining the bunch. I guessed then they must be a wolf pack, but I’d never heard of ’em.”

  “Well, that once is the only time I have, too.” Tibbs told him. “Here’s the report. You add whatever you like yourself and sign it. I’ve already signed on the left.”

  Nash completed the formalities, got his receipt for the returned money and then stood stiffly.

  “I’m headed for a bath and shave and bed. Then it’s back to Denver and some leave—I hope.”

  Tibbs stood and came around the desk. He seemed a little awkward as he held out his hand.

  “Thanks, Nash. I feel I should’ve gotten that money back by my own efforts, but I guess the main thing is that it’s back.”

  Nash gripped briefly with the agent then left the office and slogged his way wearily down the street towards the town’s only hotel.

  Denver seemed larger than he remembered it when Clay Nash stepped down from the train at the depot siding. He guessed he had been away for too long and had spent too many hours in small towns and hamlets on the edge of the frontier. That was why Denver looked so big.

  He shouldered his warbag and hefted his Winchester, then made his way down from the siding towards Elliott Street. He nodded to several of the railroad men: they knew him well enough from his comings and goings.

  Nash had sold the chestnut in Baptism Springs. In fact, Grant Tibbs had bought the animal. He had shrewdly seen that there was a chance for a bargain and he knew that the chestnut must have plenty of stamina and speed for it to have taken Nash over all the miles of country he had travelled in tracking down Hollis and Slocum. Good horses that were fast on the plains and had plenty of muscle power for climbing rugged mountain ranges were hard to come by in remote areas like Baptism Springs. Nash had been satisfied with the price: he could have shipped the horse back with him but owning a horse was really a nuisance in a job such as his.