by Brett Waring
Nash went back to the livery, paid his account and swung up into the saddle of the claybank. “Which is the best trail to Signal?” he asked the liveryman.
“Ain’t no best one, they’re all lousy,” the man told him. “Miles of desert, then they wander through the hills like a ball of wool the kitten’s been at. No wonder we don’t have much truck with folk from over that way.”
“Must be some easy way to get there.”
“Sure, but not from Flatrock, is all I’m sayin’. But your best bet would be to ride west out of town till you come to the fork in the trail. There’s three trails it branches out into. Take the center one. Up through the hills. It’ll get you there all right.”
Nash thanked the man and rode out through the big double doors. He walked the claybank across the plaza and didn’t set it running until he reached the edge of town. He didn’t know that at least two pairs of interested eyes watched him go.
Merida Hernandes watched from the parlor window of her small cabin, through the lace drapes, her face sober; while Link Somers checked at the batwings of the saloon on his way out and narrowed his eyes as he saw Nash riding out. He pushed through the doors and hurried across to the livery. The liveryman nodded. “Howdy, Link. Got your wire last night. Horse is ready.”
“Fine,” Somers said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “That hombre on the claybank been in here?”
“Nash? Yeah, he was here.”
“You know him?” Somers was surprised.
“Sort of. I was workin’ a relay station in New Mexico once when he was there. He was Hume’s man and me and Hume don’t get along.” He grinned crookedly, spat through broken teeth. “That’s why I sent him along the center trail to Signal.” Somers stiffened. “Signal? Damn it! He must be onto Coogan and Dodd!” Then he grinned at the stable hand. “But you did good, Saul. Center trail’ll take him till tomorrow afternoon to get there and then he’s got to find his way out to their spread. Gives me time to do what I want to.”
“Ought to be worth a little somethin’ to you then, huh?”
“Sure. A little somethin’.” Somers dug some coins out of his trousers pocket and handed them across to the man. “Could be more for you on my way back.”
Saul looked at the coins. “Want to be! This is so little you can hardly see it.”
“I’m out of a job, damn it!” Somers growled. “But could be there’ll be some fellers willin’ to show their appreciation for a service I’m about to render ’em. And I won’t forget you, Saul.”
The man grunted and put the coins away. He would believe that when it happened. Then he turned back down the aisle to the stall where he had Somers’ black saddled and ready to go.
Shortly afterwards he rode out across the plaza at a fast clip and passed Merida Hernandes hurrying towards the stables. Neither knew who the other was. If they had, it’s possible that much of what was to come would never have happened. And a lot of men would not have died ...
Five – In the Right Place ...
Coogan and Dodd were repairing the water pump outside their cabin when they spotted the rider coming in towards them. In those days, any strange rider approaching was cause for curiosity, if not downright concern, but most folk would simply stand by whatever chore they had been working on and wait for the horseman’s approach. No one ran inside and grabbed shotguns and barricaded doors unless there was a real range war going on or if a known killer was on the loose in the area.
But Coogan and Dodd knew right off the rider was a stranger to them and they didn’t aim to take any chances. They dropped their tools and walked to the cabin door where their rifles rested. Checking the chambers, they waited just outside the cabin door with the weapons cradled across their chests as the rider drew closer.
He was forking a big black horse and they could see the pale scum of froth on the animal’s chest and flanks. He had ridden hard and fast.
Link Somers saw the men waiting outside the cabin with rifles and he waved a hand to let them know he meant them no harm. But they merely stayed where they were and the rifle muzzles swung to cover him as he reined in and slipped out of the saddle. He held his hands well out from his guns as he walked up the slope and stopped by the pump. “Howdy, gents,” he said affably, but their eyes were hard and unfriendly.
“Hey, Taco, ain’t he the shotgun guard?” Coogan asked his pard.
“That he is,” Taco Dodd said tightly, and the lever on his rifle clashed as he worked it in a blurring motion, putting the cocked rifle on Somers’ chest. “What do you want?”
Somers shook his head swiftly. “No. You got it wrong. I ain’t workin’ for Wells Fargo any more. They fired me ...”
Coogan’s lips curled. “Don’t blame ’em. You did nothin’ to earn your keep.”
“Hell, I didn’t aim to get my butt shot off over a few lousy bucks and a bunch of passengers like we had on board! ’Sides, you hombres were pretty drunk and might’ve had itchy trigger-fingers. I’d rather go up against professionals than a bunch of drunken trail bums.”
The rifle barrel moved in a short arc and Somers staggered back, a hand clamped to his mouth as blood oozed over his split lips.
“Watch your mouth, mister!” Dodd told him quietly. “Well, what are you doin’ here, anyway? We got no use for you.”
Somers forced a smile as he pulled out a kerchief to dab at his mouth. “Well, maybe that’s where you’re wrong.”
“Only use I can think of for you is target practice,” said Taco Dodd, gesturing threateningly with the rifle.
Somers was tensed now and watching them closely. He swallowed, knowing he couldn’t mess with these men. They were too tough for that.
“All right, all right, no need to get tough,” he said quickly. “But I got somethin’ to tell you that you don’t know. You rode off before that stage went very far, and you didn’t see it crash.”
Dodd and Coogan exchanged a swift glance and Somers smiled crookedly. He had all their attention now.
“Yeah, the old Mex you put in the drivin’ seat had a heart attack, lost control. The stage went over and smashed up some of the passengers pretty bad. I was lucky, didn’t get hurt much. But the old greaser died.”
The ranchers were very tense now, looking at him with narrowed eyes and thin mouths.
Somers grinned tightly. “The passengers are suin’ Wells Fargo for compensation and they sure ain’t happy about it. So you might say your prank kind of got out of hand, huh?”
Dodd and Coogan thought about it, watching Somers all the time, making him squirm under their bleak stares and the unwavering rifle barrels. He fidgeted uneasily.
“So they fired you for not doin’ your job, huh?” Coogan asked and Somers nodded, his face grim.
“What else happened?” Dodd asked and indicated Somers’ battered face. “You didn’t get them bruises and cuts in any stage smash-up. They’re pretty fresh. Except maybe that cut over your eye.”
“Yeah, I got that in the crash. The rest, well, I tangled with a hombre named Nash. Clay Nash.” He paused and looked from one to the other. “Wells Fargo’s top investigator.”
Coogan frowned worriedly at that and glanced at Dodd but the man was merely staring coldly at Somers. “What’s he investigatin’?” he asked quietly.
“The whole deal. The money don’t bother ’em. Even though you returned it and the papers that were in the strongbox, it just don’t count one way or another. They want you hombres for stagin’ the hold-up at all; for causin’ the old greaser’s death, injuring the passengers and wreckin’ their coach. They don’t aim to let you fellers get away with it.”
“Hell almighty, it was only a prank!” protested Coogan. “We never meant no real harm. Just a little joshin’.”
“Yeah, well it was no joke from where I sat,” Somers told them with satisfaction, seeing how his news had shaken them both, but Coogan more than Dodd. “You fellers could be had up for murder. But whether you’re charged with that or somethin’ else, Wel
ls Fargo won’t let go.”
“Hell, they wouldn’t bother much over an old Mex!” Dodd said. “Judas, he wouldn’t count for much! He couldn’t!”
Somers shook his head slowly. “You’re wrong, mister. He counts. And Wells Fargo aim to nail all of you hombres. Nash is on his way to Signal now. Once there, he’ll find his way out here. But I’m ahead of him to give you fair warnin’.”
“Yeah, that part bothers me,” Dodd said. “Why would you bother?”
Somers’ face was ugly and the bitterness was obvious in his voice. “I got my reasons. I figure Wells Fargo owe me plenty treatin’ me the way they done. And I owe Nash too.” He lifted a hand and gently rubbed at one side of his battered face.
Dodd curled a lip. “Scared to tackle him yourself, huh?”
Somers flushed. “You ain’t tangled with him yet!”
“You figure we will, huh?”
“Told you he’s on his way here. Unless he’s stopped.”
“He’ll be stopped,” Dodd told him confidently. “What do you aim to do?”
Somers shrugged. “I just done what I wanted. Let you hombres know Nash was comin’.”
“What I want to know is how come you knew where to come?”
Somers smiled faintly. “I know Matt Hansen; a little, but I know him. A few questions to the fellers out at the cattle pens who helped with the brandin’ of that herd you drove in and I got some names. They wouldn’t tell Nash, maybe, but they told me. Well, you fellers gonna do somethin’ about Nash?”
“Said we would.”
“He was taking the center trail to Signal but don’t know which one he’ll ride out here.”
“Only one he can take,” Coogan told him, “I still figure you must want somethin’ else out of this.”
“Mebbe ... Hansen might like to show his appreciation,” Somers said. “I’ll ride on to tell him while you fellers take care of Nash. That way he’ll be ready just in case you don’t stop him.”
Dodd’s face straightened. “We’ll stop him!”
“Sure hope so. But don’t underestimate Nash.”
“Don’t matter how good he is, he can’t dodge the bullet he don’t see comin’,” Taco Dodd told him. “All right, mister, you can wash up and groom your horse, then get goin’ and pass the word to Matt Hansen. Tell him Wes and me’ll be across after we nail this Nash hombre.”
~*~
Clay Nash cursed that liveryman back in Flatrock for the hundredth time. He knew damn well there just had to be a better trail than this to Signal. It was obvious that this one he was riding hadn’t been travelled for a long time. Weeds grew across the trail; tumbleweeds sat in rows for twenty yards at a stretch; a deadfall he had moved had showed inches of humus and ant colonies galore underneath.
He had been duped and he had thought of turning back and ramming the liveryman’s teeth down his throat but he figured eventually he would reach Signal and that was what he wanted to do, after all. If the trail was a rough one, it was too bad; he had ridden rougher.
But he had expected to be in the town long before this and the afternoon sun was dropping sharply. If he didn’t get out of these broken hills soon, he would have to spend the night here and that he didn’t fancy. He had seen tracks of grizzly and had been snarled at by a tree-borne cougar. If the trail was unused now, the wild animals would likely resent the intrusion of a man and would come down into the camp at night.
He dismounted from the claybank and led it around a rock-fall and up a short, steep broken stretch of trail almost overgrown with brush. He was surprised when he came out of the brush and found he was on a high ridge and there, a few miles ahead across a rock-studded plain below him, were the scattered buildings of a town, hazy in the late afternoon. It could only be Signal, and that suited him fine.
He unslung the saddle canteen, drank, and then removed his hat and punched in the crown. He filled the hollow in the felt hat and set it on the ground in front of the claybank. The horse drank greedily and Nash reslung the canteen and slapped the dripping hat back on his head. It looked like he would have to spend the night in Signal and ride out to the Dodd-Coogan spread in the morning.
Nash mounted and started the claybank slowly down the steep, rutted trail towards the plain. He could see where the well-used trail came out far below, to the south of where he was. Obviously he should have taken the left-hand fork, not the center one as recommended by the liveryman. He would remember that hombre and look him up if ever he got back to Flatrock.
It was an appropriate thought. Something stung the lobe of his left ear and he clapped a hand automatically to it, hearing a ‘buzzzzz!’ and thinking at first it was a bee or wasp. Then, at the same time as he felt the oozing blood, he heard the delayed slap of the gunshot coming down from the broken butte above the trail, to his right.
Nash was already throwing himself out of the saddle as the gun hammered again and lead ricocheted from a rock in the trail near where he landed on his shoulders. He had managed to snatch his Winchester ’73 rifle from the scabbard and he held it across his chest as he squirmed around in the dust and rolled in behind some low rocks. Lead whined off a boulder in front of him and, almost simultaneously, another bullet laid a streak of grey lead across the rock where his hand rested, from behind. He cursed as he squirmed down into the dust, full length, knowing there were two of them and they had him pinned in a crossfire.
The claybank had raced on down the steep trail and, turning his head slightly he could see it with reins flying, racing down the broken slope much faster than he would have driven it. At least it was out of the way and wouldn’t catch a bullet. If the worst came to the worst, he might have to drop over the steep slope himself in a desperate slide down. It would be comforting to know that his mount was somewhere down there below, waiting patiently with trailing reins.
But he was a long way from doing anything like that. All he could do at present was lie flat while the killers peppered his shelter with lead, stitching lines of bullets from both sides so that they intersected and made an ‘X’ about where his body should have been. But the slope of the rocks formed a slight overhang and he squirmed in under this, seeing the ground only inches from him torn up by the hail of lead. They sure meant business, whoever they were and he knew he would have to shoot his way out of this or die trying.
There was a lull and he figured they had to be reloading.
He had spotted one of them, high up on the side of the butte, a perfect position for watching the old trail. The other man was somewhere over to his left and he didn’t know where he was. Nash cautiously looked out between a gap in the rocks and examined the country out there. Only one place that man could be, up on the slope where the brush was thickest and studded with rocks for cover. It was an area maybe thirty yards square, but the second killer had to be somewhere in there. From anywhere else, he couldn’t possibly shoot down into Nash’s shelter.
Hell, he hadn’t even gotten off one shot yet! Blood oozed down his neck from the small crescent shaped wound in his ear but he knew that would give him no trouble. His main problem was that he was pinned. If he showed even a small section of his body he would attract a bullet. To test his theory, he eased off his hat and slowly raised it so that the crown showed above the rocks.
A rifle whip cracked over on the side of the butte and he ducked as he was sprayed with rock dust. They had missed his hat, but it had been close enough. It seemed that the man on the butte had the better position, for the other one had made no attempt to shoot. Nash figured to tempt him again, and deliberately pushed his hat out on that side but no shot came and only when he started to withdraw the hat did the man on the butte put a bullet through its brim.
Nash was tense with frustration at not being able to get a shot at his ambushers. But that man on the slope bothered him. He hadn’t taken a shot at the hat either time and the second time he must have had a clear shot but he had not taken it. It could only mean he didn’t want to give away his position. Or it could me
an he was on the move, screened by all that brush and the broken rock, moving in closer.
Nash jerked back as his face was stung by rock chips thrown up by lead that abruptly came from the slope, below where he was looking. The bullet came in through a gap in the rocks and whined off a second rock near his shoulder. It had been good shooting and had damn near taken his head off. Just a mite higher and ... but he was in more trouble than before now. The man was lower down, able to shoot between the rocks that had protected Nash earlier. The man on the butte could shoot down and into his cover. If he stayed here, they would get him before they emptied their magazines again.
With that thought, Nash didn’t hesitate. He threw himself bodily over the rocks, keeping what he hoped was a low profile, and plunged down the steep and broken slope beyond. He hit with a jar that made the breath gust from his lungs and then the sky spun overhead and next moment his face was pushed into the earth, the back of his head cannoned off a rock, the sky spun past once more as if on a roller and he caught a glimpse of the plain far below as he fought to squirm around onto his back, trying to get his boots facing down the slope, wanting an end to this spinning and rolling. The guns were hammering at him. Through the sounds of his wild descent he could hear their explosions and he saw several spurts of dust around him and then he had managed to get his legs down most and he was able to control his sliding descent.
The man on the butte was coming out of his cover now, rifle to shoulder, working the lever as fast as he could, lead kicking up dirt all around Nash. The second man was not shooting now. He was running, parallel to Nash, leaping from rock to rock, skidding down the slope, rifle in hand held out from his body, trying to race him down the slope. Nash knew the man must have spotted the claybank and realized that Nash could well get away if he reached the bottom of the slope.
Nash’s head was ringing and his body was jarred and bruised by the rocks. His clothing ripped and choking dust swirled up into his face, blinding him. There was such a roaring in his head now that he could no longer hear the gunfire. He thought his legs were broken as they slammed into a rock full force and his shoulders actually lifted off the ground with the impact. Instead of allowing himself to fall back again, Nash heaved, throwing his bodyweight forward, stumbled and almost plunged down face first, but somehow managed to get his legs under him and his feet working. He was running down the slope now, leaping from rock to rock like the killer over to his left.
