by Brett Waring
At the big ranch—the house was sprawling, separated from the bunkhouse and ranch yard by a white adobe wall that enclosed a huge flagged patio—Nash was taken in at gunpoint and introduced to Sam Castle on the shaded porch.
The hard-faced rancher listened as his daughter told him Nash’s story but his bleak eyes never left the Wells Fargo man’s face. There was hard suspicion there and Nash had seen enough of that over the years to recognize it easily.
Sam Castle didn’t trust Nash—and maybe he didn’t trust anyone. He had that look about him. Nash figured he was a man with something to hide. Of course, it could be that if he was having rustler trouble, then every stranger had to be viewed with suspicion. It would be natural enough.
But Nash had always worked on his hunches and he had a strong gut feeling that there was more to Sam Castle than just worry over rustling. And he couldn’t shake the fact that the Rolling C was right across the escape trail of the train robbers—or what he figured to be their escape trail. It could be that they had dispersed there, then lost themselves among the thousands of rolling acres. They might be among the cowpokes who worked the ranch, with or without Castle’s knowledge.
Castle studied Nash carefully. It seemed strange, he was thinking, that the man calling himself Nathan Clay should turn up so soon after the robbery. There were signs on his face that he had been in a fight or some kind of accident. A gash on his cheek, swollen jaw, and what looked like burned skin on one side of his face. Some of his hair seemed singed where it showed beneath his hat brim.
And the man claimed to have been deafened by an explosion.
But those injuries weren’t three weeks’ old. They weren’t even three days’ old. Castle felt a wrench in his belly: was it possible that he had survived the explosion in the armored van? No, that wasn’t at all possible. He dismissed the thought instantly, but just as swiftly recalled it. Or was it? The inside of the van had looked like a slaughterhouse. But there had been that hole in the roof—where there had been some sort of trapdoor.
It just might be possible that the man had been in the van and had been blown clear. It would account for his wounds, the singed hair especially—and the deafness.
Sam Castle felt the blood drain from his face. By hell, if he were a survivor from the robbery and he had found his way here ... His eyes went past Nash to the man’s big claybank. He fixed his gaze on the gray army saddlecloth, and the regulation saddlebags and rig and his eyes narrowed. That was too much to pass off as a coincidence. The man was forking an army horse and he was wearing old army trousers.
The rancher cleared his throat and looked back at Nash.
“You’ve had a rough time of it—Clay, is it? Well, I can use another tophand, I guess.”
“We don’t need any extra hands, Mr. Castle,” Jordan put in abruptly. “Don’t go feelin’ sorry for this hombre. Mebbe his story’s true and mebbe it ain’t, but we don’t need to hire him. I say give him a feed and mebbe a bunk for the night, then send him on his way.”
Castle fixed his cold eyes on Jordan.
“You’re only my ramrod, Jordan. I have the final say—and I say we need another tophand.”
Jordan clamped his thin lips together and nodded jerkily.
“You’re the boss.”
“Show him the bunkhouse. Put him to work tomorrow. Then I want to see you in my office.”
Jordan nodded again and touched Nash’s arm, jerking his head towards the wooden gate in the adobe wall. The girl and her father watched them go out of the yard and Rachel smiled at Castle.
“Thanks, Dad. You’re a softy.”
Castle gave her a faint smile, his mind on other things.
“I don’t believe his story, Rachel.”
She looked surprised.
“Then why did you ...?”
“I’m wonderin’ what he’s up to. Figured the best way to keep an eye on him was to have him stay around the ranch till I can figure out what’s going on.”
She frowned. “You think he might be involved in the rustling?”
Castle shrugged; rustling was really the least of his worries. He stood up.
“Mebbe. We’ll wait and see. Now you better go sit with your mother for a spell. She’s been bawlin’ for you half the day.”
Rachel’s face sobered and she squeezed her father’s arm before hurrying into the house. She knew her crippled, ailing mother gave her father hell. It had been the new horse he had given her for their wedding anniversary which had thrown her and caused her legs to be paralyzed. That had been fifteen years ago. Her father’s life had been sheer hell since and her mother never for a moment let him forget that it had been his gift which had destroyed her life.
She had since done her best to destroy his.
If Mohawk Brown had known, he would have guessed the reason for Castle’s involvement with the Ghost Riders. The rancher simply couldn’t stand the nagging of his bitter wife any longer. He had lived with his guilt for all these years and had allowed her to accuse him endlessly, but he could no longer take it. He needed an outlet for his emotions and frustrations and the Ghost Riders had been ideal for his purpose.
And the Ghost Riders had also provided him with an extra income.
The big gold robbery was going to be his last job. It would net him twenty grand, maybe more when they took care of Mohawk Brown. He would leave the ranch and a few thousand for Rachel and his wife, then he would take off for Mexico.
With a fair amount of money in his pocket he would live it up down there until it ran out. Then he would simply steal more until some day a lawman’s bullet caught up with him. It wasn’t much of a future, maybe, but it was better than spending the rest of his days being nagged to death.
But the stranger who called himself Nathan Clay could be a threat to all that. And Castle couldn’t take any chances.
He waited in his office impatiently until Jordan came back. Then he offered a chair to the foreman and pushed a whisky bottle and glass towards him.
As Jordan poured, Castle asked, “Get that hombre fixed up?”
“Yeah. I think maybe he can hear some after all. I said a couple of things in a quiet voice while I wasn’t lookin’ at him and he answered once. The second time he caught himself in time, but I think he only got some of what I said. My guess is he’s deaf, all right, but not as deaf as he reckons. He can hear some things, but he ain’t lettin’ on.”
Castle nodded, his mouth grim.
“I figured as much. You think he could be in with the rustlers?”
Jordan looked at him over the top of his glass.
“You ain’t really worried about rustlers, are you?”
Castle stiffened and his eyes pinched down.
“Ain’t I?”
Jordan shook his head. “Nope. Reckon that’s a kinda fiction you thought up—rigged up by drivin’ a few head off into the hills and cryin’ rustler.”
“Why would I do that?” the rancher asked quietly, but with a trace of steel in his voice.
“To help cover your rides out into the hills. To explain why you’re away for a few days at a time. You claim you’re lookin’ for wideloopers, but I ain’t seen any real sign of ’em.”
“Which is why I’m still lookin’.”
Jordan smiled crookedly, downed the whisky, poured another, then shook his head.
“No, it ain’t. You ain’t lookin’ at all. I followed you once. You went to Resurrection and you met some other hombres there. I’d’ve gotten closer except there were armed guards everywhere. Now I dunno what you’re up to and maybe it ain’t any of my business, but I figure I ought to be cut in.”
“Why?” Castle’s voice was harsh.
Jordan grinned widely.
“I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but I do know you don’t ride out to the ghost town just to play a hand of five-card stud with a few of the boys. ’Fact, I seen you take a sheet out of the house one time. Week or so later, I heard about a bank raid by a bunch of fellers all wearin’ shee
ts over their clothes and masks. Called ’emselves the Ghost Riders.”
Castle seemed relaxed but he was knotted inside. He drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk.
“You’ve kept quiet long enough.”
Jordan shrugged. “Just been bidin’ my time so’s I could mention it to you. And so maybe it could be worth my while if I didn’t mention it to anyone else.”
“Uh—huh. Been waitin’ for that. But so happens you’ve picked a better time than you know, Jordan. I been watchin' you in the three or four months you’ve been here. You’re a hard hombre. I reckon there could be some Wanted dodgers along your backtrail somewhere.”
Jordan said nothing.
“Well, that makes no nevermind—’cept maybe it goes in your favor.” He paused. “You got anythin’ else to say before I put a deal to you?”
“Only for you to make it really worthwhile—I figure you can after that gold robbery.”
Castle nodded jerkily.
“I got that Nathan Clay hombre down as some kind of lawman. Mebbe he’s partially deaf like he claims, but he didn’t get it from no explosion building a dam. I reckon he got it when that express van was blasted open.”
Jordan pursed his lips and whistled softly.
“And he’s on your trail, huh?”
Castle frowned. “I dunno how he got here. There shouldn’t have been any trail for him to follow. Could be that he’s as innocent as he claims, but I reckon not. Thing is, I don’t aim to take the chance. Now, you’re ramrod. You take him for a ride tomorrow, show him over the spread. Go way back in the hills and let him see just how far my land goes.” Then Castle’s voice hardened. “But you come back alone. Savvy?”
Jordan merely stared, then asked, “What makes it worth my while to come back alone?”
“How much did you have in mind?”
Jordan scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Well, seems a pretty big chore to me. And, with what I already know—”
“Get to it,” cracked Castle irritably.
“All right—no pussy-footin’. I might pass up the ready cash—if you get me into the Ghost Riders.”
Castle stiffened; he obviously hadn’t been expecting that. “Way I figure it,” Jordan continued swiftly, “is that I could stand to make a lot more in the long run by joinin’ up with you hombres than by takin’ a thousand in hand now. It kinda appeals to me. What do you say, Mr. Castle?”
The rancher poured himself a drink while he thought about it. He stood and paced across the room, downed his whisky then faced Jordan.
“It’s not up to me. I’d have to get the others’ approval.”
“Then get it.”
Castle’s eyes narrowed at the aggressive tone.
“Don’t push too hard, Jordan. Tell you what. You take this Clay back into the hills tomorrow morning and I’ll ride to Resurrection and meet with the others. I’ll see you back here tomorrow sundown and let you know.”
“They better not say no.”
“I told you once, Jordan ... don’t push it. If they say no, I’ll take care of you. All right?”
Jordan snapped his eyes towards the rancher.
“What’s that mean?”
“I mean, I’ll pay you a good amount out of my share.” Jordan pursed his lips then slammed his empty glass against the desk and stood up. He hitched at his gunbelt.
“Okay. Fair enough, I guess.”
He nodded, heeled and went out.
Castle sat at his desk, looking very thoughtful as he poured another drink.
That sure hadn’t gone the way he had expected it to.
Chapter Eight – Ghost Town Guns
After supper, Nash lay back on the bunk that had been allotted to him. The other cowpokes were either playing cards, or chatting idly among themselves.
His hearing had improved considerably. He could hear the conversation at the table in the center of the bunkhouse as a low rumble. If he strained hard, he could make out quite a few words. But as far as the cowpokes were concerned, he was as deaf as a post. They made a few ribald remarks about him, but nothing vicious. He expected to go through the normal razzing of a newcomer; his bunk could collapse when he got into it one night; or there would be a rattler—maybe dead, maybe alive—placed deep in his blankets; or it could be a tarantula or a scorpion. No one was expected to get really hurt with these pranks but if they did backfire then it was simply considered bad luck on the newcomer’s part.
Nash rolled a smoke and listened, picking up snippets of news. He learned that Jordan had turned up about three months earlier and had quickly proved to be a good tophand. He had got into a fight with the ranch foreman and had put the man in hospital. Castle had given him the job as ramrod and most of the men had few complaints about him; they admitted he was tough, but he was fair and often worked harder than the men he controlled.
Someone said he was on the dodge but no one had any proof of it.
The talk got around to rustling and some of the men thought it was queer that there had only been the one batch of steers taken, and yet Castle had persisted in trying to track down the culprits; often riding into the hills for days at a time.
Nash filed the information away; it could be just a convenient excuse for Castle to get away from the ranch for a spell. The reason why he would want to was another matter ...
Then Jordan came in and the conversation lapsed. The ramrod looked at Nash.
“Can you read my lips from there?” he asked, a sly note in his voice.
Nash nodded.
“We’re goin’ out early in the mornin’. I’ll show you round the spread, then I expect you to gimme a full day’s work at whatever chore I give you. Savvy?”
“Okay with me,” Nash said.
Jordan nodded, but his face was hard as he stretched out on his bunk and gazed at the ceiling.
Nash awoke in the early hours and he lay perfectly still in the bunk, wondering what it was that had disturbed him. It was only then that he realized his hearing was almost back to normal: he could hear the snores of the other men and the grunting as a man turned to a more comfortable position on his bunk.
The noises inside his head had lessened though there was still a whistling in his ears. But it didn’t obscure other sounds and had become merely a background noise.
Through the whistling, he again heard the sound that had awakened him. It was the latch on the wooden gate in the adobe wall that surrounded the main house. Nash slowly swung his legs over the side of the bunk and strained to see in the darkness. No one else seemed to have stirred. He grabbed his gunrig and his boots and padded to the door on stockinged feet. He held his boots under one arm while he eased up the latch and opened the door silently.
Two riders emerged through the gateway and rode slowly across the yard. They passed within thirty feet of the bunkhouse and he recognized the figure of Sam Castle. The other man was partially blocked by the rancher. But he heard Castle speak irritably.
“I still say it was a dangerous thing comin’ here. You should’ve sent someone else.”
“No time, don’t you savvy that, Sam?” the other man said. “I tell you, we’re all worried. Burman took his share to be melted down—but he just didn’t come back. I’d never’ve known except that Pres Hayden had to go to Burman’s town and the man’s wife was in a state. We figure that Mohawk’s nailed him and taken his share. And that he aims to get the rest of us the same way. So Pres and me figured we better get you and see what can be done.”
“Well, I guess it’s important all right. But I wish you hadn’t come here. I got a hombre in the bunkhouse that I think might be army or law.”
Nash closed the door swiftly as he saw the other man snap his head towards the bunkhouse as he rode past. Just before the door closed properly he saw the man’s face in the starlight.
It was Grant Tibbs.
The man had been hanging around Denver the past couple of weeks, finding excuses to visit head office. Both Hume and Nash had f
igured that he had only been sniffing around to see if there was a better job in the offing. But it seemed like he could have been picking up snippets of information for use in holding up the gold train.
Nash knew Castle and Tibbs had to be talking about gold. It looked as though his hunch had paid off and that he was hot on the trail of the robbers ...
He stiffened as a gun muzzle rammed hard against his spine. A rough hand spread over the back of his head and smashed his face into the door. Stars burst in front of his eyes and blood spurted from his nostrils as his knees buckled. The gun barrel rapped his skull, then the door was wrenched open and his body was shoved roughly into the yard.
He sprawled on hands and knees and heard the door click closed. Shaking his head dazedly, Nash blinked and looked up.
Jordan placed the gun barrel between the Wells Fargo man’s eyes and notched back the hammer. Castle and Tibbs had ridden out of the yard and had been swallowed up by the night.
“You seem to hear pretty good, Clay.”
Nash said nothing. He decided not to move. It wouldn’t take much, he thought, to make Jordan drop that hammer.
“You got a long nose, too. Looks to me like you and me had better take that ride into the hills. Only a couple of hours earlier than we planned, anyways.”
Nash still said nothing. Jordan kicked him solidly in the ribs and the agent rolled onto his side and drew up his knees, gagging for breath. Jordan kicked him in the back.
“On your feet. I see you got your boots and gunrig. So, saddle up and get goin’.”
Nash stood slowly, leaned against the wall of the bunkhouse and pulled on his boots. Jordan scooped up his gunrig and took out the Colt. He tossed the Wells Fargo man the empty holster and cartridge belt and Nash buckled it on.
