Clay Nash 1

by Brett Waring

  The drivers and shotgun guards on these coaches were considered to be the elite and were venerated by almost everyone ... except, of course, the road agents who came up against them all too frequently.

  There were stories of lone drivers with the guard dead or wounded, whipping their teams into a run and riding down frantically fleeing outlaws, crushing them beneath the iron-shod wheels of the Concords. Others were so adept with their long bullwhips that they used them as weapons and more than one would-be road agent had lost an eye to the flicking rawhide of a driver’s whip. Others had had the lash snake out and wrap around neck or wrist, yanking them bodily out of their saddles.

  Many road agents, of course, had had their lives end abruptly when the shotgun guard had used his deadly weapon, the long-barreled Ithaca gun supplied by Wells Fargo and loaded with heavy buckshot. And any guard who saved an Express box full of valuables for the company could expect to be rewarded. There would be some cash, an engraved silver watch, and, lately, there had been personalized shotguns and six-shooters for the guards.

  Wells Fargo was a mighty tough, respected and generous company, and Clay Nash was looking forward to being a part of it. Especially as he figured Cash Matthews wouldn’t stand a chance against such power.

  He was looking forward to riding shotgun, even more so when word came through that Wells Fargo, not a company to let grass grow beneath its feet, had won a court order for right-of-way across range that Matthews had claimed as his. But it had never been deeded and was actually free range. Wells Fargo’s legal advisers had discovered this fact and within a week the newly-acquired Garth Stageline coaches were rumbling across Matthews’ land.

  Clay Nash could hardly wait to get into Warbonnet and take on the shotgun guard’s job. For he knew Matthews would not take this lying down and the sooner he began to fight back, the better Nash was going to like it.

  Five – Riding Shotgun

  WELLS FARGO took control of Walt Garth’s Warbonnet office, although he remained nominally the manager. They instituted their own system of scheduling coaches, handling accounts and, of course, added the Express Banking business. Garth had never contracted to carry valuables in the past and now special room was made beneath the driving seats of the Concords for the small green, iron-bound Express boxes bearing the name, “Wells Fargo Express Co.”

  Garth found his office changed physically, too. Gun cupboards were built and a huge iron strong room imported from Pittsburgh from the foundry of Haskins-Dubay. This, too, bore the name of Wells Fargo and, when the firearms were moved into the lock-up cupboards, the backstops of the pistols and the receivers or barrels of the rifle and shotguns were also stamped with the company’s name. There was a variety of arms to choose from: the Colt Bisley with the short, four-and-three-quarter inch barrel for use in the pockets of the guards and drivers; the bigger Colt Peacemaker in .45 caliber, the gun that gave rise to the legend that “Westerners refuse to die unless the bullet is .45 caliber”; the big Army Model Remingtons, the Smith and Wesson Schofield .45, and several favored versions of cut-down rifles and shotguns, each with its own virtues extolled by the guards who had made the structural changes. The shotguns were mainly Ithaca models with Damascus barrels in 12-gauge, but there were a sprinkling of other brands, too: Remington, Greener, New Era, Hollis & Son and William Dougalle. The Ithaca was the one mostly approved by the company, but the guards were given their choice.

  When Clay Nash went to the Warbonnet office with the new Wells Fargo sign above the awning, and told Walt Garth he was ready to take on the job of riding shotgun, he chose the Ithaca shotgun, a Colt Peacemaker and a Bisley to carry in his pocket as a back-up gun. Each weapon bore the company’s stamp and Nash had to sign for them against the serial number of each gun. He was given two days to familiarize himself with the guns in open country around the town, and then rode along on the stage-run down to El Paso as an observer with a veteran guard riding shotgun.

  It was an uneventful run but the older guard gave Nash good advice.

  “All I gotta say is this, young feller. When the road agents show up, don’t get to figurin’ that you’ll be okay if you just set with your hands up. That ain’t what you’re bein’ paid for, and in most cases it won’t do you no good. The guard’s the first to get shot and the only way to be sure you don’t is to shoot first. Don’t be queasy about it. Blow the bastards outa the saddle soon’s you spot ’em. They don’t expect no quarter and they don’t give none. Get in that first shot and you got a chance of riding back home with a whole skin. Oh, and one more thing. If you got a good driver, it helps a hell of a lot. Ain’t the easiest job in the world handlin’ a six-in-hand team with bullets flyin’ around your ears.”

  Nash figured that made sense but his first weeks of riding shotgun were uneventful, even though the stages carried valuables in the express boxes. Could be that the local bad boys hadn’t yet realized the stages were carrying money and bullion, but sooner or later they would and Nash took every opportunity to practice with the shotgun and getting out his Peacemaker and pocket-pistol fast. The stages were making the run across the right-of-way through Matthews’ range and the story was that there was some legal tie-up now because Wells Fargo hadn’t yet finalized their purchase from Walt Garth. It was some kind of hair-splitting legality that Matthews’ lawyer had gotten onto and it threatened to put an end to the stages crossing his range, for the Court Order was in the name of Wells Fargo while it was still, legally, Garth’s coaches which were using the right-of-way. There had been a few close shaves with some M-Bar-M steers being stampeded into the path of a couple of stages, frightening hell out of passengers and drivers alike, and, once, a huge boulder had ‘mysteriously’ rolled down a slope and narrowly missed the coach as it rumbled along the trail.

  It was a fair indication of what was to come, Nash figured, and he longed to get on that run so that he could come up against Matthews and his hard cases again. But he was busy learning his new trade on the El Paso run and in the middle of his third week as shotgun guard, he had his baptism of fire.

  The stage was carrying a full complement of nine passengers and more than thirty thousand dollars in cash, destined for the Cattlemen’s Bank in El Paso. The passengers were cattle ranchers who had banded together to drive a big herd up to Denver, Colorado, because of the shortage of beef there. The gamble had paid off and they were riding home rich men. The whisky flowed freely in the coach as it swayed and rumbled along the trail, the team in the capable hands of Roarin’ Dick Magee, one of the most famous of the Wells Fargo stage drivers. He was a wild-looking character with goatee beard and rebel cloth cap proudly proclaiming his Texan heritage. He wore a long, flapping calico duster over his clothes and his turn of language was colorful enough to turn the air blue. He spoke to each of the horses in the team as if he knew them personally—which he did—and berated their ancestry almost every yard of the way. In fact, it was a monologue of cusses with rarely a repetition and Nash sat in wonder, listening, yet still alert for signs of trouble.

  Roarin’ Dick Magee used the whip liberally, but though the lash cracked constantly, like endless gunfire, it rarely touched a hide. It would flick dust from a tardy rump occasionally, but mainly it cracked within inches of a laid-back ear or almost gently caressed a heaving flank. Magee was a master of the long bullwhip and a master driver, too.

  Nash was to be very glad of both these attributes within the next mile.

  The cattlemen were singing ribald songs and the clank of empty whisky bottles being tossed out of the coach windows became more frequent as Roarin’ Dick lashed his team up a rise that climbed towards a stand of timber and a cluster of boulders. Nash came alert as he saw where the trail was leading: it was a mighty good spot for an ambush he figured and he broke open the Ithaca, checked the shells and snapped the gun closed again. He thumbed back both hammers and Magee looked over at the sounds of the clicks. He nodded in approval, beard wagging.

  “Yep. That’s the way, son. Get ready. T
hat spot up ahead’s a mighty good road agents’ hangout ...” His whip suddenly snaked out and flicked the ear of the leading offside horse. “Don’t you try that on me, you ornery jug headed hunk of crow bait! You figure I ain’t awake to your tricks, a-pullin’ off to the side thataway and breakin’ your gait! You get back into line before I write my name on your useless rump with this here bullwhip! You hear? You love-sick, mangy drag-ass! ... That’s better.” He turned to Nash again and spoke as if there had been no interruption. “They got plenty of cover in them rocks and trees and the getaway’s all downhill. ’Course that works for us, too. If I can get my stage through ’em, we got a downhill trail ahead of us. This be your first? Hold-up, I mean?”

  Nash looked at him sharply. “My next’ll be my first. What makes you so sure there will be road agents ahead?”

  “Must be that there feller a-settin’ his hoss in the middle of the trail with a six-shooter in each mitt,” Roarin’ Dick answered calmly and Nash tensed as he saw there was a man where Magee pointed with his whip. “Just walked his horse outa the shadow. See? Wearin’ black from head to foot and forkin’ a black bronc. I’d say it was Black Bart himself.”

  The road agent fired a shot into the air and reared his mount onto its hind legs. “Haul down, driver!” the man called. “Haul down or get yourself shot!”

  The man fired again, this time his bullet whipping past between Nash and Magee. Roarin’ Dick started to haul back on the reins, fighting the team. Out of the corner of his mouth, he snapped, “The rocks!”

  Nash had already spotted the men holed-up in the rocks. He counted three guns on the left, two on the right side of the trail. The stage was rocking and swaying and jolting to a halt. The cattlemen cursed as they were flung about.

  The man in black pranced his mount around and drew a bead on Nash, whose shotgun roared from where he held it across his lap, catching the bandit unawares. The charge of shot hit man and horse both and they went down in a threshing heap as Nash swung the gun barrels to the left where the second of the bandits was beginning to show himself on top of a rock, holding a Winchester.

  The Ithaca thundered again and the man was lifted into the air, flung around like a rag doll before he clattered out of sight behind the boulders. At the same time, Roarin’ Dick lived up to his name and yelled a wild ‘Yaa-haa!’ lashing at the team with his whip, slapping the reins, lifting them into a sudden gallop. The passengers landed in a tangled heap on the floor as the Concord took off wildly. Guns blazed from the rocks as Nash thumbed fresh loads into the Ithaca, bracing his legs against the footboard as Magee’s team charged forward.

  The wounded horse managed to get up and out of the way but the road agent in black only rose halfway to his feet before the team hit him. Nash thought he heard a brief scream before the man went down under the pounding hoofs and jolting wheels, but then he was snapping the Ithaca breech closed and bringing the butt up to his shoulder. Rifle bullets tore past his face.

  He saw two men running for horses tethered in the trees, loosed off both barrels and was jolted back by the recoil. One man clawed at his leg, went down on one knee. The other kept running, pausing only briefly to fire his rifle one-handed.

  On the right, the two bandits were already mounted and racing their horses to come up alongside the stage. They pounded down the slope, six-guns in hand, shooting at the coach body as well as at Roarin’ Dick Magee. A slug took off his rebel cap and he raged, leaping to his feet, turning and lashing out with his bullwhip at the bandit who ran his mount alongside, trying to reach the team leaders and grab the harness to halt the coach The bullwhip snaked out, wrapped its thong around the man’s neck and Magee hauled back with a savage curse. The man clawed at his throat as he was literally pulled clear out of the saddle. He dangled momentarily, arms and legs flailing, and then he hit the ground hard. Magee kept a tight hold on his whip and the bandit was dragged behind the wildly careering coach, his attempt to release the strangling rawhide growing feebler.

  Nash had dropped the shotgun now and had his Peacemaker out and working. He lay across the roof of the coach and exchanged shots with the second mounted road agent. Splinters flew from the roof edge and one of the cattlemen yelled. Nash ducked, grabbed the Colt’s butt in both hands, notching back the hammer and panning the foresight blade as he followed the hard-riding bandit. The man was lying along his mount’s neck, snapping shots wildly. Nash held his aim, steadied as much as the swaying coach allowed and dropped hammer. The man slammed off his horse, hit the ground, rolled, flailed and flopped against a trailside rock. He didn’t move again.

  The two outlaws from the rocks on the left-hand side were mounted now and tearing after the wildly-swaying coach, shooting, riding so that one would pass down each side of the Concord. Nash wormed farther back across the roof, wedged himself in amongst the luggage and carpetbags, and, thus steadied, picked off his first man with his second shot. The man went down hard but was only wounded, though the fight had been knocked out of him. He sat up, clutching his left shoulder, dazed, making no move to catch his horse. The other man wheeled away abruptly, apparently deciding that he’d had enough. He’d seen his companions wiped out by the deadly fire of the shotgun guard and the whip of the crazy driver. It was enough for him. He triggered his last two shots in frustrated anger and then turned his horse and rode back to where his wounded companion was slowly getting to his feet.

  Nash crawled back to his seat and tapped Roarin’ Dick Magee on the shoulder, gesturing behind. Magee glanced around, saw the danger had passed and nodded, starting to haul back on the reins and slow the team with a withering stream of curses.

  “And that, I would say, is your bloodin’, son,” Magee said to Nash as the coach rolled to a stop and the dazed, battered and befuddled cattlemen spilled out onto the trail.

  “Guess you could call it that,” Nash said, reloading the Peacemaker and then picking up the Ithaca and thumbing in two fresh shells.

  “Didn’t do too bad,” Magee allowed, deadpan.

  “Thanks,” said Nash wryly.

  ~*~

  Wells Fargo apparently also thought that Nash had done ‘not too bad’ on the encounter. They sent down a representative from Head Office, their top detective, Jim Hume, the man who’d been especially hired by the company to track down and eliminate the pesky road agent who called himself ‘Black Bart’ known as the ‘Po 8.’ This latter term came from the short poems the bandit would leave at the scenes of his robberies, the most famous example being the following:

  ‘I’ve labored long and hard for bread.

  For honor and for riches,

  But on my corns too long you’ve trod,

  You long-haired sons-of-bitches!’

  It took Hume no time at all to establish that the bandit who had tried to hold up Magee’s coach was not the infamous Black Bart.

  “He don’t operate that way,” Hume told Nash. “He’s always pullin’ the same stunt and I’m plumb wore out tryin’ to tell drivers and guards what to look out for. Look, I’ll tell you about Bart’s first hold-up. And every one since has been the same ...”

  Hume’s story was short but graphic. Black Bart first came to the attention of Wells Fargo on July 26, 1875, a good five years earlier. The Sonora-Milton stage was rounding Funk Hill, the Express box carrying the washings and nuggets of many miners from the goldfields. John Shine was the driver: in those days there were no shotgun guards and it was actually this robbery which gave rise to the guards on future runs.

  Shine’s six-horse team dragged the stage around the hill and the driver hauled back hard on the reins at the sight before him. In the center of the trail stood a lone figure, wearing a flour sack mask over his head and a long linen dustcoat over his clothes. His boots were hidden by woolen socks pulled clear over them. He held a shotgun, but not very threateningly, as he spoke in a deep voice, ordering Shine to throw down the strongbox. Shine hesitated but the bandit merely indicated the bushes surrounding the trail and the driver tensed as
he saw six rifle barrels covering him. Black Bart said quietly:

  “Shoot if he tries being funny, boys.”

  Shine hesitated only a moment longer then tossed down the Express box. Black Bart dragged it to the side of the trail and spoke again: “Okay, we’ve got the box, men. Let the stage through.”

  He signaled to Shine to drive on and the man lost no time in whipping his team up and rumbling through ... On his return trip back to Sonora, Shine passed the same place and was startled to see what looked like the same six rifle barrels still pointing at him from the bushes. At first he figured he was going to be robbed again, but nothing happened so he climbed down and approached cautiously. The ‘rifle barrels’ turned out to be cunningly placed broomsticks ...

  “And that’s how Bart operates,” Hume concluded. “Always alone. Always the same trick. Damn papers make a fuss of him because of those goddamn verses he leaves behind sometimes, and because he’s polite, always says ‘please’, when he asks for the strongbox ... ” He snorted. “As if that makes any difference! He’s still stealin’. He’s becomin’ a legend, that’s why the company’s offerin’ $8,000 reward. Which would’ve been yours had it been Bart you shot back there.”