Clay Nash 1

by Brett Waring

  The stage was rolling into the canyon, the driver hauling rein at the sound of gunfire, the guard holding his shotgun ready.

  “Keep rollin’!” yelled Nash, waving the stage on. “Keep rollin’!”

  The driver needed no second bidding and Dekker made a lunge for the ropes that held the wedge of the platform of rocks. Nash launched himself off his rock bodily and landed fair and square on Dekker’s thick shoulders, bearing the man heavily to the ground. Nash flung his rifle aside, fell to the slope, picked up the rope and flung it over the edge out of reach. Dekker, face dirt-caked and scraped raw by the rock, sat up slowly, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth as he turned to face Nash.

  “You got more lives than a blamed cat, Nash,” he growled. “But you’ve sure run out of luck now!”

  He started forward and Clyde fired, his bullet ricocheting from a rock close to Dekker’s feet. He stopped abruptly, whipped his head around, looking coldly at Clyde. Nash glanced briefly down into the canyon and saw that the stage was past any danger now and he lifted a hand.

  “Okay, Clyde ... Leave it. I’ll handle this. Rest of you keep out of it, okay? He’s mine.”

  The Wells Fargo men nodded and made the M-Bar-M crew back up as Nash and Dekker faced each other, the latter smiling crookedly at the chance to come to grips with Nash. He cut loose with a bull-roar and hurled himself across the slope, thick legs driving him over the broken earth and rock in his eagerness to slam his fists into the Wells Fargo man.

  Nash was gripped by a cold anger that surprised him: it enabled him to think more clearly, sharper, faster. At first sight of Dekker he’d been ready to smash the man into the rock and to hell with the coach and everything else. But he’d stuck to the job in hand and now while he still aimed to grind his fists into Dekker’s flesh, remembering how he’d been dragged behind the man’s horse that day, months ago, when M-Bar-M had burned his cabin, he went about it coldly, mercilessly.

  Dekker’s charge carried him across the rock slope like a bull buffalo, his fists knotted, arms wide, muscles tensed. Nash waited until the man was almost on him, then stepped aside, up the slope. Dekker’s rush carried him past and the man stumbled as he skidded to a halt and tried to turn back and upslope to face Nash. He put down a hand against a rock to steady himself and Nash stepped in and lashed out with a boot. Dekker took the kick in the chest and was flung backwards. His legs scrabbled for a hold but his boots slipped on the uneven ground and he stumbled backwards, put out a hand and just managed to save himself from going down all the way. He pushed upright painfully, face twisted with pain.

  Nash walked across, looking almost leisurely, as he stood above Dekker again and kicked him in the belly. The big ramrod went down this time, clutching himself and rolling, coming up more slowly, his face a mixture of anger and pain, his eyes blazing hate. He closed a fist around an apple-sized rock and came charging in, the weapon raised over his head. Clay Nash ducked under the down-swinging arm, drove a fist upwards and it took Dekker under the armpit, high on the ribcage. Dekker dropped his arm swiftly, locking Nash’s fist there and he bared his teeth as he slammed his other fist over, dragging Nash in close.

  The Wells Fargo man could do nothing to ward off the blow; he was dragged in too close and off-balance. The big gnarled fist rammed brutally against his midriff and breath gusted out of Nash. His legs buckled but Dekker didn’t release the fist locked under his arm. He drove his own free fist again into Nash’s mid-section and the man doubled over as far as he could. Dekker bared his teeth. He hit Nash again just above the belt buckle and Nash’s legs sagged. Dekker abruptly released the other’s arm, stepped back as Nash, doubled over, stumbled for balance. Dekker moved back in swiftly and snapped up a knee into Nash’s face, lifting the man clear off his feet. Nash landed on his back, face bloody, gagging for breath.

  Dekker laughed aloud as he lunged in, kicked Nash in the side then lifted a boot above the man’s face and stomped down. Nash whipped his head aside and the boot scraped his ear, ripping the flesh and making more blood flow. The Wells Fargo man kept rolling away across the slope and then turned as Dekker raced after him. He rolled maybe five feet and pushed upright as Dekker launched himself in a boots-first jump, aimed at Nash’s head.

  Clay Nash sidestepped, then swung into position swiftly, fists clubbing. He caught Dekker in mid-air, the double-fisted blow sledging, catching the ramrod in his kidneys. Dekker hit the ground hard and slid half a dozen feet down slope, rocks rolling and dust rising. Nash went after him and was on top of the man before he could get to his feet properly. He stomped on the ramrod’s back, driving him into the rock, knelt on his shoulders and twisted his fingers in the man’s long hair. He slammed Dekker’s face into the slope several times, stepped back and dragged him half upright. Nash held his hair with one hand, drove his fist down into the bloody face. He drew the fist back and smashed it down again and his fingers slipped out of Dekker’s hair so that the big man went over backwards, rolled almost to the edge of the platform of poised boulders and rocks.

  Nash, panting, stooped and grabbed Dekker’s shoulders. He heaved the big man onto his back and dragged him to the edge of the platform, feeling the logs creaking and moving under his feet. Still remembering that brutal dragging all the way to M-Bar-M from his cabin, Nash heaved Dekker off the platform’s edge and the man’s big body struck the slope a yard down, skidded, then rolled and flopped all the way down onto the trail below.

  Wiping blood and sweat from his face with a balled kerchief, Clay Nash staggered back to the silent group and, steadying himself against Dakota, looked coldly at the apprehensive group of M-Bar-M men.

  “You hombres can unload that platform now,” he panted and he saw the hard cases exchange glances.

  “Hell, Nash!” one man protested. “That platform could give way any time! Dekker made us build it that way!”

  “That’s a chance you take,” Nash said coldly. “Get started. Heave every rock and boulder off there and put ’em across the face of the slope. If even one rolls down ... ”

  He left the threat unspoken and Matthews’ men, muttering, wiped sweaty palms against their trousers and began to cautiously shuffle out onto the platform of boulders.

  Nash sat down on the slope gratefully. His legs refused to hold him any longer.

  Seven – The Denver Run

  THE WELLS FARGO driver known as ‘Bottles’ Skelton clutched convulsively at his hat brim and pulled parched lips back from his yellowed teeth as he stood before Cash Matthews’ desk in the office at the M-Bar-M ranch house. His nervousness showed not only in his actions but in the sweat that rolled down his face and scrawny neck. Skelton flicked his watery eyes away from Matthews’ hard stare.

  “This had better be important, Skelton,” the rancher told him curtly. “You’ve been told never to come near M-Bar-M or be seen openly with my men in Warbonnet.”

  Skelton was nodding eagerly as Matthews spoke. “Figured you’d better know about this right away, Mr. Matthews. Otherwise I sure wouldn’t’ve taken the chance of comin’.”

  “Well, what the hell is it?” Matthews snapped irritably.

  “Walt Garth,” Skelton faltered, groping for words to best convey his information. “He’s thinkin’ of movin’ back to Denver ... Soon as Wells Fargo finalize the deal ...”

  Matthews stood up abruptly, a big fist smashing down on his desk-top. “Goddamn it! If that’s all you rode out here to tell me—”

  Skelton backed off, holding up a placating hand and he swallowed as Matthews stopped speaking. “No ... no, that ain’t all. It’s just that Wells Fargo say they’ll finalize next week for sure.”

  Matthews showed interest at that but Skelton didn’t pause now that he was started.

  “So, on the strength of that, Garth’s sendin’ his money and papers on the next stage in the express box. And he’s sendin’ Susie along, too ... You know, his daughter.”

  Matthews continued to stare levelly at Skelton, frowning, digesting t
he information. “Special coach run?” he asked.

  Skelton shook his head. “Nope. Susie’s just another passenger but she’s travelin’ under the name of ‘Winters’, her mother’s maiden name. I got the Denver run this time and I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but as we been doin’ a bit of a deal with me passin’ on the stage schedules and so on, I figured this might be worth more’n a bottle of whisky to you.”

  Matthews snapped a cold look at Skelton and the man swiftly licked his lips, wondering if he’d gone too far. But he relaxed at the rancher’s next words.

  “Just might be at that. Garth’s money and his daughter, eh? And you’re the driver?”

  Skelton nodded eagerly. “Clay Nash is ridin’ shotgun. Special request of Walt Garth himself.”

  Matthews’ mouth moved in a hard caricature of a smile. “Now that is somethin’ ... Vern Dekker’ll be mighty pleased to hear that. He’s been out of the saddle for close on a fortnight since tanglin’ with Nash. You showed good sense in comin’ here, Skelton. I’ll see you’re rewarded.”

  Skelton smiled nervously, a Judas smile.

  ~*~

  The Denver run was a long wearisome trail at the best of times, but to Clay Nash this particular run seemed to be endless. The miles rolled away beneath the horses’ hoofs and iron shod wheels but there seemed to be just as many more miles ahead. Even the stopover at the Iron Ridge way-station had seemed to drag, though it had been good to see Jed and Mary Summers again. He’d only been through their station twice since getting the job as shotgun guard. Maybe it was the extra responsibility of Susan Garth this time, and knowing that virtually all of Garth’s money rode in the strongbox.

  It was no longer kept beneath the driver’s seat. The iron-bound, wooden box there was for the driver’s and guard’s gear, extra ammunition, guns, spare harness. The express box was now in a special iron container bolted under the floor of the passenger compartment. Wells Fargo figured this would make it more difficult for road agents to carry out their hold-ups as swiftly and successfully as they had in the past.

  Nash knew that in that box were not only Garth’s papers and his precious manuscript, but the money paid over by Wells Fargo in final settlement for purchase of the stageline. Garth was keeping that news secret for now and entrusted Nash to see that both the box and Susan Garth arrived safely in Denver.

  He’d been thinking about this as the stage rumbled along through country to the north of his old stamping ground, timber trails that wound through the hills on the long climb up over the Sierras. Skelton the driver was drinking again from his jug and Nash marveled that the man didn’t tumble from his seat. But it was said that Skelton drove better drunk than sober, the former condition being more or less ‘normal’ for him and the latter most unusual. Anyway, he managed to push his six-horse team around the narrow mountain trails without any obvious effort ... and without taking the whisky jug away from his mouth very often.

  Clay Nash didn’t hear the shot. All he knew about the hold-up was a smashing blow in his right side that lifted him over the low iron rail of the seat and then the earth was rushing up to meet him and he hit with stunning force. He rolled and flailed and the world spun dizzily and then he plunged into blackness.

  Just before passing out he heard several more rifle shots and had a blurred image of Bottle Skelton rearing to his feet and crashing over the side of the stage. Then the lights went out.

  Nash came round slowly, hearing low voices that faded and came back stronger and faded again. He saw blurred images of people bending over him and felt waves of burning pain wracking his body. Finally, the voices settled to an even level and the images sharpened into focus and he found that he was propped up against a tree beside the trail with a thick wad of bandages around his lower ribs. He tried to sit up higher but gagged on the pain that ripped through his side. He clamped a hand against the thickest part of the bandage and looked up at the disheveled stage passengers who were gathered around him. The two women were crying, while the Englishman in the grey derby hat tried to comfort them; the drummer, the cowhand and the quiet man in the claw hammer coat with the small black bag who could have been a sawbones were standing around him, looking down at him. The man with the bag knelt and spoke quietly.

  “Just take it easy, friend. I’m Doctor Lacy. You took a bullet across the ribs and it’s carved away considerable flesh but hasn’t broken any bones. In fact it glanced off a rib. You’ve lost a deal of blood but I figure I’ve got it stopped now. Or will have if you lie still.”

  Nash nodded. “Thanks, Doc. What in hell happened?”

  “Road agents,” said the cowboy, rolling a smoke. “Hit you from ambush and then blew the driver clear out of his seat. Already had a tree mostly cut through and they pulled it down across the trail with a rope. That stopped the coach.”

  “Driver okay?” Nash asked.

  “Dead,” answered the sawbones. “Got him clean between the eyes ... ”

  “Judas! Did they get ... ? Where’s Miss Garth?”

  He tried to struggle up but the pain was too much for him and Doc Lacy held him down anyway. But he’d gotten up far enough to see past the passengers. The coach was splintered and shattered where it had been torn apart by an explosion. One horse of the team lay dead. There was no sign of Susan Garth and Nash felt cold emptiness form in his belly. He looked sharply at the men around him.

  “There was five of ’em, with maybe another two in the brush,” said the cowboy. “They took all our valuables, then blew that iron express box clean off the floorboards of the coach. Before they rode out, the leader, a big hombre, masked but movin’ kind, of stiff like he was hurt or somethin’, grabbed the young gal and hauled her across his hoss. As he rode off he yelled out somethin’ like, ‘Tell Garth not to do nothin’ till he hears from us.’ And that was about it.”

  “Dear God,” breathed Nash, struggling up, ignoring the sawbones, using the tree trunk to steady himself as he staggered to his feet. “How long have I been out to it?”

  “Maybe an hour and some,” said the doctor, “but you’ll be out permanently if you don’t rest.”

  “The hell with that, Doc!” gasped Nash. “I got to get after them bandits. You, cowboy! Your saddle was amongst the luggage. Will you throw it on one of the coach team for me?”

  “Why, sure, but like the doc said, feller, you ain’t in any fit condition—”

  Nash cut in roughly. “Get it done! I don’t have time to spare. Doc, you take an extra hitch in that bandage so my wound don’t pump out much blood, and you, drummer, hustle me up some grub in a sack that I can sling on the saddle horn. I still got my Peacemaker. How about my Winchester and shotgun?”

  “They’re here,” the cowboy called, lugging his saddle to the horses which were still linked together by the traces. “I got a saddle scabbard and saddlebags, too.”

  “Fine,” said Nash, moving about experimentally and the medico threw up his hands in resignation.

  “All right, you blamed fool, if you won’t listen to me, at least stand still long enough for me to tighten down that bandage!” He shook his head slowly, mouth tight. “You’ll kill yourself, Nash.”

  “Feel like doin’ that already for lettin’ this happen,” muttered Nash. “Okay, Doc, do your damnedest!”

  Once up in the saddle it wasn’t so bad, leastways, until the bronc began to move. Then Nash felt the motion sending waves of pain through him, radiating out from his ribs. He leaned over to the right a little and found that eased the pain some and he rode out that way, with the sawbones still shaking his head dolefully and the two women still weeping from the shock of being manhandled by outlaws.

  The road agents hadn’t bothered to hide their trail in the mountains and Nash didn’t even have to dismount to follow their sign. He didn’t care for it: it smacked of over-confidence or a trap. But, though he rode cautiously, Winchester across his knees, alert for ambush, there was no danger. The trail led plainly through the mountain range, following maverick cattle
trails and generally the easiest way across the slope of the land. Only once was a way smashed through brush and sapling timber, and he figured this was by nature of a shortcut to get down out of the ranges as fast as possible. He was right: the tracks led out of the hills into open country and, after following them with the same ease as in the hills, for maybe a half mile, they abruptly petered out.

  Nash was weary with pain and felt the bandages wet with blood and the constant leaning over had cramped his muscles. He stiffly climbed down from the saddle and leaned on the horse, which moved away. The carriage-horse wasn’t used to being ridden and had fought him some in the timber. Now he saw why the bandits hadn’t bothered to take time covering their trail in the mountains. They had wanted to get clear of the hills as soon as possible and no matter how well they’d covered their tracks, sooner or later, they would have still arrived at this open country. So why waste time covering a trail that inevitably led to only one place? But now the tracks had been covered and there were many different directions the bandits could have taken.

  Nash hunkered down and rolled a smoke, feeling dizzy and wanting nothing more than to lie down and sleep. He smoked slowly, gazing out across the flats, thinking. What was it the big bandit had called back, according to the cowboy passenger? ‘Tell Garth not to do a thing till he hears from us!’ Which meant they were holding Susan for ransom. And they’d come prepared with explosives, knowing they’d have to blow that express box free of the stagecoach. But how had they known about the box? It was the first time it had been carried that way on this run.