Clay Nash 12

by Brett Waring

  “Down to the corrals and saddle a couple of mounts. That claybank of yours and I’ll show you the one I want.” As they marched across the dark yard, Jordan said, “Mistake you ridin’ in on that hoss with the army saddle and cloth, you know, Clay. By the way, that your real name?”

  “It’ll do. Jordan your real name?”

  The ramrod laughed harshly.

  “It’ll do, too. C’mon. We’re wastin’ time.”

  He shoved Nash roughly and kept urging him to hurry with the saddling when they reached the corrals. Jordan took Nash’s Winchester from the saddle scabbard, worked the lever and ejected all the shells. Then he rammed the rifle back into the leather sheath. Nash frowned: if he had been Jordan, he wouldn’t have put the rifle back at all. But he wasn’t and he wasn’t about to argue, either. The bullets in his belt would fit the rifle—when he could get a chance to load it ...

  They settled swiftly into saddle and Jordan, holding the cocked six-gun on Nash motioned for him to ride ahead.

  “Which way?” Nash asked.

  “Same way as Sam and his visitor went.”

  Nash snapped his head around at the man’s tone.

  “You heard me,” Jordan growled, gesturing impatiently with the gun. “Get goin’. We don’t want to get too close, but we don’t want to lose ’em, either.”

  Nash frowned and kneed his claybank across the yard, feeling the ramrod close behind. He knew it was going to be a one-way ride for him, but he wondered just what Jordan had in mind, following the rancher and Tibbs ...

  They were deep into the hills before it was full daylight and, from a ridge, saw Castle and Tibbs riding hard through a distant valley. The men had covered a lot of ground and seemed to be in a considerable hurry.

  Nash hesitated on the rim of the ridge.

  “You any idea where they’re headed?”

  “Sure.”

  Nash eased his mount down the slope and, when Jordan didn’t elaborate, hipped in the saddle.

  “What’s the big secret?”

  Jordan gave him a hard look.

  “Guess it won’t hurt none for you to know. There’s an old ghost town way back in there. Called Resurrection. Castle’s been visitin’ it from time to time. Meets some pards of his there.”

  “Like Mohawk?” Nash asked.

  Jordan stiffened. “What d’you know about Mohawk?”

  “I guess it’s Mohawk Brown. I heard Tibbs refer to him in the yard back there with Castle.”

  “You know the hombre who came to get Sam?”

  “Sure. Grant Tibbs. Runs the Wells Fargo agency up at Baptism Springs.”

  “Well, I’ll be ...! How d’you know that?”

  Nash thought carefully then, slowing his mount, said, “Because I’m a Wells Fargo investigator.”

  As he had hoped, the confession momentarily stunned Jordan and the man blinked. For a second, the gun barrel wavered. In that time, Nash rammed home his heels and slammed the claybank into Jordan’s horse. The animals went down in a flailing of hoofs and snapping teeth, whickering shrilly. Nash hurled himself from the saddle and rammed his head into Jordan’s face as the man tried to bring the gun around. They crashed to the ground and Nash grabbed the man’s gunhand, then slammed it onto a stone.

  The Colt flew from Jordan’s grasp then Nash drove a fist against the man’s jaw. Jordan grunted and hooked an elbow up and back, catching the Wells Fargo man in the ribs. Nash doubled over and Jordan heaved him off. As Nash scrabbled on the loose slope, trying to get a grip, Jordan threw himself at him bodily and they grappled and rolled over and over, falling and bouncing and skidding down the slope. They hammered and kicked and gouged to the bottom then they grabbed each other and tried to claw their way to their feet. But their legs gave and they fell. Jordan threw a handful of dirt into Nash’s face then hit him on the side of the head and Nash went down. He rolled away, somersaulted backwards and bounded to his feet, catching Jordan unawares. The big ramrod was only half erect when Nash slammed a clubbed fist into his kidneys. Jordan’s knees buckled and he dropped. Nash twisted his fingers in the man’s hair, yanked his head back and drove his fist into the bloody, upturned face. Jordan convulsed and Nash flung him away savagely.

  The ramrod collapsed and began breathing raggedly through bloodied nostrils.

  When he came round, the two horses were standing nearby with trailing reins and Nash sat on a rock, dabbing a split lip with a kerchief. In his other hand, he held a cocked six-gun.

  Jordan sat up groggily, his face swollen and misshapen. He spat out a broken tooth, pulled some loose skin from a split in his bottom lip then wiped a hairy wrist across his bleeding nostrils.

  “Where d’you tie into this, Jordan?” Nash grated. “You Burman’s killer?”

  Jordan took his time about replying, then shook his head slowly.

  “You really a Wells Fargo man?” he asked, his voice rasping.

  Nash nodded.

  Jordan sighed. “Hell, just my luck. Well, guess I’d better tell you ... I’m an undercover U.S. Marshal.”

  Nash stiffened.

  “Hogwash!”

  “Don’t blame you. It’s gospel though. Let me take off my left boot. See? Got a hole in the bottom.”

  He held out his leg and Nash could see the hole in the boot sole. Jordan had packed newspaper inside to save his foot.

  At Nash’s nod, he slowly and carefully removed the boot, took out the newspaper and from among its folds produced a small, printed square of paper. He handed it to Nash who glanced at it briefly.

  “Well, it says William Jordan is a sworn Deputy United States Marshal working undercover. Description about fits, too ... So I guess that puts us on the same side of the fence.”

  “So you can put up that Colt.”

  “When I’m ready—which ain’t yet. What are you doin’ here, Jordan? What’s the case you’re workin’ on?”

  “The Ghost Riders. They’ve been buildin’ up quite a reputation for themselves here and there. They raided a bank in Red Cloud and among the things stolen were some federal papers. They’re likely burned by now: they weren’t worth any money to ’em. Just got scooped up with the cash, I guess, but that made it a federal crime and I got assigned to the job. I got a lead on Sam Castle—too complicated and long to go into details—but I got me a job on his spread.”

  “Put his foreman in hospital so you could take over ramroddin’ the outfit.”

  Jordan arched his eyebrows.

  “You don’t waste time, do you? Yeah, well, I figured if I was ramrod, I’d have more freedom to look around and keep tabs on things. It worked. I trailed Sam to that ghost town once—and saw him meet with the others. I knew he was one of ’em, all right.”

  “Why didn’t you move in?”

  “Hell, man, I was alone. I wanted to be able to nail ’em all at once, so I had to bide my time for when they’d have another meetin’. I’ve had men on standby, just waiting for my sign.”

  “You figure he’s on his way there now for a full meeting of this bunch that calls themselves the Ghost Riders?”

  “Hell, yeah. You heard what Tibbs said. They’re gonna meet and gang-up on Mohawk, ’cause they’re scared he’s gonna double-cross ’em for the gold. Which must be the coins taken from that Washington train.” He screwed up his face. “Were you on that?”

  Nash nodded. “How I got deafened.”

  Jordan nodded. “Old Sam figured as much. He wanted me to take you into the hills and put a bullet in you.”

  Nash drilled his gaze into Jordan.

  “What were you aimin’ to do?”

  “Bring you out, throw a scare into you and tell you to vamoose. I’d have told Sam I’d killed you, of course.”

  “Risky.”

  “Had no choice. I figured he was gettin’ ready to run. He’s plannin’ on clearin’ out on his wife. He crippled her fifteen years back and she won’t let him forget it. Drivin’ him loco.” Nash nodded, then holstered his gun.

  “We
’re wastin’ time. You know the way to this ghost town?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They rode for more than an hour, then, suddenly, a harsh voice cracked from the brush beside them:

  “Reach! Pronto!”

  Nash and Jordan spun their mounts towards the voice but froze when Sam Castle kneed his mount out of the brush and covered them with his rifle. Grant Tibbs stood on a rock to one side. He held a shotgun.

  “Judas, Sam. You know who that hombre is? It’s Clay Nash—Hume’s top gun.”

  Castle’s eyes flashed as they set on Nash.

  “So I was right. You are some kinda lawman. But I never figured you to be from Wells Fargo.” He flicked his gaze to Jordan. “And what happened to you. You were supposed to put a bullet in him.”

  “I’d have gotten round to it,” Jordan said casually.

  Castle shook his head slowly. “You’d have done it before now if you was gonna do it at all. By hell! Not you, too? You ain’t the law as well? It’d explain a helluva lot of things if you was.”

  Jordan said nothing, and Castle nodded to Tibbs who took their guns.

  “This is just what we want, Sam. Couple of undercover lawmen—caught red-handed. Good an excuse as any for ridin’ in on Mohawk and his men. And while they’re busy takin’ care of these two ...”

  He allowed his voice to trail off and Castle nodded slowly. “Good idea, Grant. Tie their hands and let’s go. This ought to take Mohawk off his guard. But what about Pres Hayden?”

  “He’ll be meetin’ us at Indian Rock. Mightn’t be any need for him to show himself in town. He can hide with a rifle while we take these two in.”

  Castle nodded again. “Pity you and me didn’t get together long before this, Grant. I figure we make a mighty good team.” Tibbs looked pleased as he started tying Nash’s hands.

  It looked like the end of the trail for them both.

  Mohawk Brown came out of the saloon and his face straightened as he saw Clay Nash, but brightened almost immediately when he noticed the ropes binding his hands to the saddlehorn. He stepped down, a couple of his men standing on the porch with rifles. The outlaw leader nodded to Castle and Tibbs but his attention was on Nash and Jordan.

  “What we got here, Sam?”

  “Couple of lawmen. Jordan’s been workin’ for me for a spell but I’ve only just figured him for an undercover man. Other turned up yesterday.”

  “Yeah ... Clay Nash from Wells Fargo. I’ve tangled with him before. Be a real pleasure to take care of him. And this other scum.” He nodded to one of his men. “Cut ’em loose.” While the man slashed at the bonds, Mohawk turned towards Tibbs and Castle.

  “You fellers bring in your coins? We’re still meltin’ down and we might as well use the forge while she’s hot.”

  “Uh—no, we just figured we’d better bring in these two,” Castle said.

  Tibbs nodded. “I just rode along to lend Sam a hand.”

  “Neighborly of you,” Mohawk said. “Seein’ as you ain’t normally within a hundred miles of the Rolling C.”

  Tibbs and Castle stiffened, but they didn’t want to force the issue. Then, as he heard the rifle hammers click back on the verandah, he wished he had forced things. Mohawk’s men covered them both with cocked rifles.

  “What’s this, Mohawk?” Castle demanded.

  “Just beatin’ you to it, Sam,” the outlaw leader grinned. “You aimed to jump me and my boys. You and the others.”

  Castle colored.

  “You already jumped Burman,” Tibbs snapped.

  Mohawk smiled at him. “Figured that was what’d goosed you over to Sam’s place. Where’s Hayden? You got him hid somewheres out there with a gun? Or ain’t he buyin’ in? Mebbe he’s already run with his share and ain’t waitin’ to melt it down.”

  “I guess he has,” Tibbs said flatly. “I ain’t seen him.”

  “Which means he’s out there in the timber someplace,” Mohawk said, casually grabbing Tibbs’ leg and heaving him out of the saddle. As the man started to scramble up, Mohawk kicked him squarely in the middle of the face. The man hurtled backward with a muffled groan and collapsed, twitching a little.

  Then Mohawk turned his attention to Sam Castle.

  “You need any help to dismount, Sam?” he asked.

  Castle hesitated, then got off his horse very slowly. He lifted his hands shoulder high and stepped away from his horse at a curt command from Mohawk. The outlaw ripped open the saddlebags and searched them, then he turned and smashed a fist into Castle’s face, knocking the rancher to his knees.

  “Where is it, Sam? Where’s your share of the gold?”

  “Where you won’t get it.”

  Mohawk grinned tightly. “Wanta bet?” he growled. Then he kicked Castle in the stomach, walked across to Tibbs and shoved a boot against the man’s neck, and stood on him. Tibbs choked and thrashed as his face congested and he clawed frantically at Mohawk’s boot. When the man’s struggles were just feeble jerks, Mohawk suddenly released his boot and turned back to Castle.

  “You wanta tell me now?”

  Castle shook his head. Mohawk sighed.

  “I can stand on your neck, too, Sam. But I’ll let it go for now. We’ll find out where the gold is later. Yours, too, Tibbs. Right now, we gotta be sure these two didn’t leave a trail for any of their friends.”

  He motioned for Nash and Jordan to dismount and they did so. Mohawk stood facing them, giving Nash most of his attention.

  “We got a lot of old scores to settle, Nash.”

  “You want to try it man-to-man?” Nash asked.

  Mohawk guffawed. “Hell, you still got your gall. No, amigo, I ain’t givin’ you no even breaks. I’ve got the upper hand and I aim to keep it that way. But you ain’t goin’ to die easy, Nash.” He turned and signaled and two men came out of one of the old buildings next to the saloon. Mohawk gestured to Nash and Jordan. “Tie ’em up to those trees.”

  He pointed to a pair of trees at the edge of a lot near what had once been the Resurrection Hotel. It was mainly a pile of rubble; the outside staircase hanging precariously from the one wall remaining.

  Nash and Jordan were dragged across and their arms were tied behind them around the trees. Castle and Tibbs were covered as Mohawk pulled out his six-gun and walked to the end of the saloon porch, standing in the shade cast by the only portion of the awning that still had shingles on it. He raised his Colt and rested the barrel across his left forearm, sighting carefully.

  He triggered.

  Nash jerked as the lead thudded into the tree beside his ear, driving splinters into his cheek and spraying him with sticky sap. The next shot burned his neck and he winced.

  “Who knows you’re here, Nash?” Mohawk called.

  “No one, damn it,” Nash replied. “They jumped me before I could get a message out.”

  Mohawk grinned. “You’d say somethin’ like that anyway.” He fired again and Nash cursed as the bullet clipped the lobe of an ear and blood splashed onto his neck. He fought his bonds but they were too tight. He saw Mohawk shifting aim to his legs and he steeled himself for the pain of a bullet through the kneecap ...

  At the same time, he felt the burn of sharp steel against his wrists as it slashed through the ropes holding him to the tree.

  And then a gun was thrust into his right hand. Nash didn’t waste any time. He threw himself sideways as Mohawk fired and the lead ripped a long line in the bark as it ricocheted. Nash triggered while he was still in the air; his bullet clipping the shingles above the startled Mohawk’s head. The outlaw ducked and dived into the saloon through an empty window as Nash fired again.

  Castle and Tibbs jumped the two nearest outlaws, kicking them in the groins, wrenching rifles free and smashing butts into their faces. Tibbs spun, levering, but was cut down by an outlaw from the saloon. As he fell, Castle ran for the trees where Jordan was wrenching frantically at his bonds. Lead started flying and dust spurted around the rancher
’s boots. He fired on the run at the saloon and was almost to the trees when Mohawk Brown appeared in the batwings and, butt braced into his hip, triggered a double-barreled shotgun.

  The charge of buckshot took Castle and lifted him off the ground, hurling him six feet to land in a skidding, crumpled heap against the base of the tree where Nash had been tied. By now Jordan was free and he dived for the rancher’s small body, wrenched the rifle from his nerveless fingers and came up to one knee, peppering the front of the saloon and driving the outlaws inside.

  Nash rolled into the weeds of the lot behind the tree and heard a sob. He spun towards the sound, starting to lift his thumb from the cocked hammer. He stopped the hammer’s fall just in time as he recognized Rachel Castle.

  She was trying to crawl out to her father’s body, still clasping the knife she had used to cut Nash’s bonds. The Wells Fargo man hurled himself at her and knocked her down, pinning her with his body. He ducked as bullets and buckshot thudded around them.

  “Stay down!” he yelled, as she fought to reach her father.

  Rachel dropped under his weight and he kept her pinned, snapped a shot at a running outlaw and saw the man stagger. He heard Jordan’s rifle crack and the man went down and lay still.

  “Stay here! Right here!” Nash snapped to the girl and gathered himself for the run to the side of the old hotel.

  He waited until the shotguns had thundered again and made a dash for the shelter of the rickety wall, crouching behind the staircase as lead tore splinters in front of his face. He snapped off another two shots and jumped up, running behind the wall itself.

  He ran along the lane behind the hotel which brought him to the rear of the old barber’s shop. There was a door but it hung by one hinge. Nash kicked it and dived inside, hearing Jordan’s rifle whiplashing from the lot. He stumbled over scattered chairs, but got through to the front of the shop to look out through the cracked window. He could see into the saloon and he knelt quickly and fired through the doorway beside the big window. An outlaw, crouching just inside the batwings, jerked as lead took him through the spine and hurled his body through the doors onto the sagging boardwalk.