Clay Nash 8

by Brett Waring

  “Stiff with bear grease,” Nash explained. “Guess our friend spends a lot of time in swampy country. Bear grease mixed with juniper and sage is used by Injuns to keep bugs and leeches away.” He frowned as he sat back on his hands. “By hell! There’s a swamp beyond the canyons up there in the hills. Sheriff says no one goes in there. Too dangerous. Be an ideal place for a man to hide if he didn’t want anyone comin’ after him.”

  “If he knew his way about.”

  “I reckon this feller would take care of that. See his boots? Dried mud and moss strands. They’re stiff with tallow, too, for waterproofing. I think we’re onto something here.”

  “You think Mantell’s in the swamp?”

  “Could be.” He grabbed the wounded man’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Hey! Buckskin.”

  The man’s eyes slowly flickered open and sought to focus on Nash. He stared at the Wells Fargo man for a long time and nodded slowly. He didn’t look in the girl’s direction.

  “You nailed Monroe because he came in to tell me where to find you, huh? And you know where Mantell is hidin’.”

  Buckskin coughed, his thin chest heaving convulsively. Bubbling, harsh sounds came from his wounds and the girl moved away a little. Nash saw she was bone white and her lips bloodless. But she hung on, though she didn’t look directly at the man she had shot.

  “Look, mister, no use me telling you different. You’re finished,” Nash said gently. “There’s nothing I can do for you. I’ve got no medical supplies even if there was. You gonna help me before you go?”

  Buckskin stared at him, his eyes full of pain, cheeks blowing out as he tried to stifle the coughing. He slumped back and closed his eyes though his chest heaved violently with his efforts to breathe. Nash leaned over him.

  “Where are they, Buckskin? No use you trying to hold out. What’s the point? You can help me get Mantell. All I can offer you is a decent burial. I’ll make sure the grave’s deep enough so the wild animals don’t dig you up.”

  Liz Garrett made a gulping sort of sound and turned away swiftly. She stumbled off several yards. Nash turned back to Buckskin. “If you know anything at all about me, you know I’ll keep my word. Where is Mantell? In the swamp?”

  Buckskin’s eyes opened and he showed his surprise at Nash’s deduction. Despite himself he nodded slowly.

  “Figured as much. Trouble is how the hell do we get in there and flush ’em out?”

  The breed stared into space, blood dribbling over his chin. He seemed to be seeing something that Nash couldn’t. Then he made guttural sounds deep in his throat and at first Nash thought it was the beginning of the death rattle. Then he realized Buckskin was trying to talk. Finally he managed something, just a single word, but it was all Nash needed.

  “Hoss.”

  He was dead in a matter of seconds. Nash stood up and moved across to the white and shaken girl.

  “Wh-what did he say?” she asked huskily.

  “‘Hoss.’ He meant we could get into the swamp by letting his horse show us the way. Turn it loose and follow it in. You all right?”

  She started to nod then changed her mind and shook her head slowly. “No—I—I couldn’t stand by and see him suffering like that.”

  “Well, it’s finished now and I’ve got a grave to dig. Then I’ve got to catch his horse or trail it, and see if it can lead me through the swamp to Mantell without me falling into a pit of quicksand.”

  She looked at him as he made to move away, eyes looking for a good spot for the grave.

  “I’m coming.”

  Nash checked and looked at her over his shoulder. He shook his head. “No.”

  “Yes! Damn it, Nash, yes! I saved your life. You owe me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that. I’m trying to keep you from gettin’ killed. If Mantell don’t get you, the swamp things will. Rattlers, moccasins, cottonmouths, wolves, bobcats, bogs, quicksand.”

  “You can’t put me off that way. I know it won’t be pleasant, but I’ll put up with all that and more—for a chance to free Ben.”

  Nash shook his head in admiration. “You’ve got plenty of guts. Dunno if it’s stubbornness or whether you’re just plain loco, but, if you want to make sure we nail Mantell and maybe get our hands on that mailbag you’re so interested in, you’ll ride hell-for-leather back to Squirrel Creek and bring the army or the law back with you. I’ll leave signs for them to follow. And I’ll just spy out the lay of the land and wait. I’ve no hankerin’ to tackle the Mantell bunch alone.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Likely four or five, but they’re all hardened killers and I’d hate to think of what they’d do to you if they got you alive.”

  She swallowed, flushing. “Look. I’m not a fool. I know it won’t be easy. I never for a moment thought any of this would be. I’m a good shot, as you’ve seen. I—I’m not used to killing men, but I know your reputation, Clay Nash, and I think the two of us would be capable of taking on Mantell’s bunch.”

  “Which only goes to show you don’t know nothin’ about Mantell. Sorry, Miss Garrett. You’d get me killed if you were along. I’d have you to worry about as well as myself. Best thing is for you to ride for help.”

  “Suppose I just flatly refuse?”

  Nash looked at her bleakly. “Then I’ll clip you under the jaw and leave you tied up here while I go ahead and spy out the lay of the land. Then I’ll pick you up on my way back when I go into Squirrel Creek for help. ’Course, by the time we get back, Mantell will likely have gone, and we’ll have to start the hunt all over again.”

  The girl studied his face, her eyes narrowed. Slowly, she released a long breath.

  “I believe you would knock me out, too. All right, if you really think they could get away if I don’t go for help, I’ll ride for Squirrel Creek. But, first I’ll help you with the grave.”

  “Don’t have to do that. Was me gave him my word.”

  “I’ll help,” she insisted. “After all I—killed him.”

  Nash shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Seven – Swamp Battle

  Trace Hollis resented the way that Jim Hume had more or less taken over the Wells Fargo depot in Red Rapids. At least, that was the way he figured it. Hume, however, saw it from another angle. He reckoned he could leave the supervision of the repairs and rebuilding to Hollis, but he wasn’t satisfied with the way the investigation was going so far.

  He hadn’t admitted it to Nash, but he figured there was something he was missing here. Sure, on the surface it pointed to Nitro Mantell, but something kept nagging at Hume. Something was missing—or he was missing something—he couldn’t decide which. All he knew was that it wasn’t quite right and didn’t sit easy on him.

  Nash had had to be dispatched after Mantell, anyway, but that girl showing up had first started Hume wondering about the robbery. Since she arrived, the feeling that there was more to this than he was seeing had become very strong.

  Now there was Hollis, looking hurt because Hume was spending so much time in the wrecked office, literally going over the whole place with a magnifying glass. He wouldn’t allow the blasted safe to be moved or touched yet.

  Hollis came to the door of the office as Hume poked his head into the safe with his large magnifying glass in one hand, a flaring vesta in the other.

  “Jim—I got to tell you, I ain’t all that happy with things.”

  Hume came out of the safe, shook out the vesta and stood up. His steady gaze saw the tightness around Hollis’ mouth, the simmering anger in his eyes. It was a kind of ‘little boy’ anger, in Hume’s opinion, and he had seen it many times years ago when Hollis had failed to make the grade as a detective.

  “Such as?” Hume asked quietly.

  Hollis swept an arm around the office. “This whole thing, Jim. I—kind of get the idea you don’t trust me or something, the way you’re hangin’ about.”

  “Wrong, Trace. And you know it. You know what I’m doin’ here. Now what’s rea
lly stickin’ in your craw?”

  Hollis’ eyes narrowed down a little and then he gave a fleeting grin as he shrugged again. “Guess you always were sharper than I figured. Well, it’s the whole deal, Jim. I mean, I’m as much to blame for it happenin’ as Clay Nash. You agree?”

  “Let’s say I do.”

  “Fine. Well, you sent him off lickety-split to track down Mantell. Seems to me you could’ve given me a chance to make up for things, too.”

  “That’s how it seems to you, huh?”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  Hume set his glass down and hitched a hip over one corner of the desk.

  “Thing is, Trace, you’re the depot manager and Clay’s the investigator. You had your chance—once—but you fouled it up.”

  “You fouled it up for me, you mean,” Hollis retorted, cheeks coloring. “I could’ve gotten through all right. I was smarter than some of the hombres you did let through. Dakota Haines for one. Tim O’Mara for another. But you had some kind of down on me, I reckon, and seems like you still got it.”

  Hume gave Hollis a look that was almost pitying. He sighed and didn’t reply for a long while. “Trace, you still can’t see it, can you? It ain’t your lack of brains or ability. It’s you. Your outlook, your attitude, your—immaturity. You just weren’t capable of handlin’ the situations that could arise. And, I’m sorry to say, you’re still not.”

  Hollis’ jaw muscles knotted and pulsed as he glared at Hume. He looked, for just a moment, as if he might take a swing at Hume, but then he visibly relaxed.

  “That’s your opinion,” he gritted, trying to force a smile that somehow just didn’t come off. “But you could’ve given me another chance. Clay Nash went after Mantell—but I stayed put. Why, Jim, why?”

  “Because Nash is the investigator and you’re the depot manager.” He stood, picking up his glass and slipping it into his cloth case. “You do a good job at that, Trace. Keep it up. Leave the other kind of work to the men who’ve trained for it.” Hume’s voice abruptly hardened. “Okay? Because if it ain’t, you just say so. And I’ll find someone else to manage this depot.”

  Hollis stifled his anger with an effort that took some time, but he managed to put on a tight grin. “Guess you’re the boss, Jim. All I was askin’ for was a chance.”

  “It was the way you asked, Trace. Which is what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you. Now, how you gettin’ along with the rebuildin’ of this place?”

  Hollis sighed, knowing he had lost his chance at getting what he imagined was a ‘slice of the glory’, and nodded.

  “Got some fellers due over any time.”

  ~*~

  Clay Nash never had liked swamps. Give him a desert any time, and he’d take his chances on finding enough water and food. But swamps gave him the creeps. The dankness, the sogginess underfoot, the dripping trees, dangling moss, and the slithering, crawling sounds that were part of the swamp atmosphere day and night filled him with horror. The mournful cries of unseen creatures seemed to place him in another world and tended to make him feel totally disoriented.

  It was as if he were walking the edge of a nightmare—and about to step into it.

  But, for all the uneasy feeling, he had been successful. Buckskin’s horse had led him safely through the swamp trails that wound between the quagmires and quicksand pits, and, ahead, through the permanent layer of fetid mist, he could see a hazy point of orange that could only be the glow of a campfire. It must have been high noon though it was only a guess on Clay’s part. The trees were so entangled overhead that he couldn’t see the sun. There were mosquitoes biting his flesh and clogging his nostrils and he swore softly as his horse gave a soft whicker and stamped its feet as it swished wildly with its tail. He would have to leave it here and go ahead on foot.

  Luckily, Buckskin’s mount had stopped on a small island of grass to graze and hadn’t gone on into the camp. If it had, the Mantell bunch would have been alerted. Now Nash tied his mount to a slimy, low-hanging branch and waded through knee deep water with a reddish scum, to the small island where Buckskin’s mount was grazing. The animal looked up sharply, pricking its ears, but made no move to bolt as Nash approached it slowly, talking quietly. He got close enough to grab the reins then led the animal back to where he had tied his own mount, tethering it alongside. The two horses sniffed and muzzled each other. There was grass within reach and, hopefully, they would stay quiet while he moved in and took a look-see at that ghostly camp.

  He checked his rifle, eased his Colt in its holster and started forward, swatting at the mosquitoes that had already raised lumps on his face. He waded through the scummy water, used the rifle barrel to break away a thick spider’s web, and stepped up onto the spongy ground under a canopy of trees. He could smell the fire now and guessed it would be kept burning night and day, the smoke helping to keep down the flying bugs.

  Nash felt something wriggling inside his boots and knew he had picked up some leeches, but he was too close to the camp to stop and strip them off his flesh now. He would have to attend to them later.

  The trees thinned and he saw there was some sunlight slanting down through the leaves, with smoke and mist mingling in the angled shafts of light. There was a kind of mysterious beauty in it—but he wasn’t in the mood or position to appreciate it right now. Those leeches were worrying him and he wanted to get the lay of the land and then retreat, undetected, so he could get rid of them and wait for Liz Garrett to bring back the army. They would have to move in quietly, for he imagined Mantell wouldn’t hole-up in here if there were no easy way out.

  He bellied down in the ooze, trying not to think about what might be underneath him, used the rifle barrel to push aside some dripping, dark green leaves. The camp was only yards away and he picked out Nitro Mantell almost instantly, short and thick-chested, striding about throwing cow chips on the ring of small fires that burned all around the campsite, filling the place with aromatic smoke. It was a little hard to make out all the men, but Nash guessed there were four outlaws, though there could be another one or two in the crude lean-tos up on a small hillock and partly hidden by thick smoke clouds.

  He recognized Cherokee but the other two men had their backs to him. He was almost tempted to step out and get the drop on them, but he knew these men were tough fighters and they wouldn’t come easy. Not that he hadn’t taken on bigger odds but there didn’t seem any point to it now when there was help on the way. His best move was just to observe and retreat quietly—then move in when the girl brought the army troop.

  The Mantell bunch didn’t seem to have any plans to go anywhere. Their horses were in a rope-strand corral, some distance from the camp. The saddle gear was piled up on a blanket near the lean-tos. They seemed confident that their hideout would not be found. No guards had been posted. It was not misplaced confidence, Nash thought, because he could never have made it in here without Buckskin’s mount leading the way. He had blazed the trail so he could find his way out again—and so Liz Garrett could lead the army men in. Now that he had the bunch pinned down, he felt he’d try to find himself a better vantage point, watch a little longer, then work his way back to where he had left the horses. By the time he had reached that point, the girl should be on the edge of the swamp with the law.

  Nash stood up, glad to be out of the ooze. He stamped his boots, hoping that would jar loose some of the leeches. Searching around for somewhere high and dry it looked as though the only position he could hope for was up in one of the trees. He had one picked out and was making warily towards it when he froze.

  A horse whinnied shrilly from back in the swamp. A moment later, there followed a woman’s scream of terror.

  Nash glanced towards the camp, and, through the leaves saw the men on their feet now, guns in hands. He swore bitterly, already pounding back through the scum-laden water, knowing damn well what had happened. There was no point in trying to be quiet now! Mantell’s bunch were already smashing their way through the brush and would have him spot
ted in a few minutes—long before he could hope to get under cover.

  He was right. Before he reached the heavy timber where he had left his horses, the guns of the outlaws began firing and he heard their lead whipping through the branches. Panting, he kept running, hoping he didn’t veer too far off the track and fall into a quicksand pit. And, ahead, near where his own mounts were tethered, he saw a wild-eyed chestnut shaking its head, a huge spider crawling along its neck, pausing to sink in its fangs.

  Sprawled in the mud and crawling away, deathly afraid, was Liz Garrett. It was all too obvious that she was alone. She struck out frantically with her quirt as several other spiders crawled towards her. Nash leapt towards her, stomping madly on the creatures. He reached down, grabbed her buckskin vest and half lifted her to her feet, shoving her roughly behind a tree as several bullets chewed bark from the trunk. He dropped to one knee, rifle coming up to his shoulder, firing swiftly, four shots, aiming at the outlaws who were seeking cover over there.

  He knew damn well the girl had never gone back for the army or the law: she had followed him in here, eager to get her hands on that mail sack, thinking of nothing else.

  Now they would be lucky to get out of this alive.

  They didn’t speak. She threw him a glance that had a ‘thank you’ in it but he only scowled and shoved her head down. Then he swung his rifle to his shoulder again, took a swift sighting on a man crashing through brush across the swampy ground and squeezed off a shot. The man went over sideways, dropping as if he had suddenly run into a trip wire. He rolled and somersaulted and Nash was ready to put a finishing shot into him but he didn’t move again. One down, three to go, he thought as lead sprayed him with disintegrating bark. Then there were three swift, sharp cracks beside him. He glanced down to see Liz Garrett. She was kneeling and expertly working her small, nickel-plated Smith and Wesson in both hands. Surprised, he glanced back at the three outlaws and blinked as Cherokee came smashing through screening brush, clawing at his chest, coughing a ribbon of blood. He dropped to one knee, a hand going out to steady himself.