by Brett Waring
And, from what he’d been told of their actions, they’d seemed to know Susan would be on board. Sounded like it had been all planned out with the kidnapping of the girl in mind. Which meant someone had talked. Nash tensed, wincing at the pain in his side, but ignoring it, letting the sudden thought that had flashed into his brain run its course.
The cowboy had said the masked leader moved stiffly, as if he were injured or unused to being in a saddle. A huge man, with thick shoulders, a grating voice, a flash of facial bandages showing through the ragged eyeholes torn in the flour sack mask.
‘Vern Dekker!’ Nash breathed his thoughts. ‘By Judas, it could’ve been him!’ Only Matthews would gain by holding Susan Garth to ransom! He could pressure Garth into making Wells Fargo forget about the right-of-way across M-Bar-M, forget about any legal action. And Skelton had had more money than usual to flash around; Dakota and Clyde had both remarked on it. Could be Skelton was an informer ...
He thought about it some, staring out across the open land. Not fifteen miles away, in a south-easterly direction, lay the northern line of the M-Bar-M.
It was a hunch worth following through. It could save him time or get him shot. But, the way he saw it, he had little choice.
He’d fallen down on his duty and this was his chance to make up for it. He had to take it, even if it got him killed.
Eight – Raw Deal
THE WOUND had stopped bleeding. Dried blood had caked on the bandages and it had been hours since they’d felt wet against the raw flesh. The pain hadn’t diminished, in fact, had grown worse, if anything, after the long hours in the saddle and the restless night spent under a blanket.
From his position among the rocks overlooking the M-Bar-M line camp, he could see all he needed to convince him that his hunch had been right. The hold-up and kidnapping had been pulled off by Vern Dekker and some of Matthews’ hard cases. Lying prone, on his good side, Nash parted a small hackberry bush in front of him and watched as the man he knew as Rio tossed five flour-sack masks onto a small fire which he poked at with a stick.
Also, he could see horses in the corrals and they were the same ones as described by the passengers.
He tensed as the door of the line shack opened and Vern Dekker came limping out. The big ramrod had bandages across his face where his nose had been broken in the fight at the canyon, and he favored his left leg.
Nash backed off to where he’d ground-hitched his mount and slid the Winchester from the scabbard. He checked the loads, jacked a shell into the breech and then thumbed a new one into the tubular magazine. That gave him sixteen shots now and all he had to do was thumb back the hammer to cock the gun for the first one. His Peacemaker was fully loaded and he filled the empty loops on his cartridge belt, dropped a handful of shells into his shirt pocket to be on the safe side.
Nash skirted the clump of boulders, rifle in hands, crouching, gritting his teeth against the pain it caused him to hold that position. A wave of dizziness swept over him and he checked momentarily, to lean against a rock just long enough to steady himself. Then he moved forward again, made a run for a stand of aspen not fifty yards from the line shack. He was almost there when Dekker turned his head aside to avoid some of the smoke from the fire and spotted him.
“Nash!” the ramrod yelled and slapped leather, dragging his six-gun clear and chopping wildly at the hammer, even as he started to run for the shack.
Rio dropped his fire-stick and stepped into the thick smoke as he went for his own gun. Nash dropped to one knee, threw the rifle up and triggered a shot at Dekker. The big ramrod was zigzagging, concentrating on reaching the protection of the shack. Nash swung the rifle barrel towards Rio as the man ran out of the smoke, firing wildly as he, too, made a run for the shack.
Nash got to his feet, crouching, levered fast and triggered three swift shots. Rio was caught in mid-stride and went down so hard he did a complete somersault, landing on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled. He did not move again as Nash swung the rifle barrel towards Dekker who was lunging the last few feet for the door. The big ramrod went through the doorway as Nash’s lead chewed splinters from the frame.
Nash was on his feet and running forward instantly, not feeling any pain in his wound, so intense was his concentration. Even as he ran he could hear Dekker fumbling to get the latch in place and he levered and fired four times as fast as he could work the action. Bullet holes appeared in the flimsy door and then he was lunging across the narrow porch, turning his left shoulder into the woodwork, legs driving his whole body weight against the boards. The door held momentarily, then smashed open with a splintering, tearing sound as his weight tore the latch out of the doorframe. There was a grunt and he saw Dekker staggering back across the room, having been hit by the crashing door. The ramrod regained his balance and brought his Colt up. Nash leapt to one side, braced his shoulders against the shack wall and levered and fired before Dekker could bring his gun into line. The explosion of the rifle was deafening in the confines of the shack and Dekker was lifted off his feet as the bullet smashed into him. He flailed halfway across the room, cannoned off a deal table and rolled to the floor, dragging a chair with him. He sprawled on his face, one hand still holding his gun. Nash stepped forward swiftly, kicked the gun away from his hand and held the rifle barrel an inch from the man’s head as he leaned down and, one-handed, heaved Dekker over onto his back. The man was still alive, but lung shot, his breath rattling in his throat, bloody froth at his lips.
“The girl, Dekker!” Nash panted, wincing at stabs of pain from his own wound. “Where is she?”
Dekker stared up at him with shocked eyes, coughed, but didn’t say anything at first. After Nash asked again and shook him, Dekker grated, “Go—to—hell!” and went into another fit of coughing.
Nash stood up, looked down at him for a spell and, holding his wounded side, went out into the yard. But there’d be no help from Rio; he’d caught two slugs through the heart. Wincing, Nash stared around and looked in the general direction of the Matthews’ ranch house. It would be suicide for him to try to ride in there, and he was sure that’s where they must have taken Susan. He’d be alone against nearly a hundred guns.
But there had to be some way to get to the girl and rescue her before Matthews did her any harm. There had to be some way.
Wearily, he got his horse and started on the long road back.
~*~
Warbonnet, four days later.
Dakota Haines and Pop Moran were changing shifts in the Wells Fargo depot when all hell seemed to break loose from Walt Garth’s office. Pop was preparing to take over as guard on the El Paso run while Dakota was just signing off, having ridden the stage down from Santa Fe. He unclipped his sawn-off shotgun and laid it on the clerk’s desk as he laboriously signed his name on the running sheet. Pop stood by, grumbling that the long run would keep him from attending his youngest child’s second birthday party.
Then they heard Garth’s voice raised in an angry roar, something that no one could recall ever happening before, not even the clerks who had been with the original stageline. Pop and Dakota exchanged glances as they heard the angry words plainly.
“I don’t want any excuses, Nash!” Garth shouted. “You’ve been a guard long enough to know your duties and you had special duty on the Denver run! Two special duties: to guard my daughter and my cash! And you fell down on both of ’em, damn you!”
“Now that ain’t fair, Walt!” protested Nash but he was shouted down by the stageline owner.
“Then you tell me what is fair! You get yourself shot from ambush, don’t even spot the road agents when you should’ve taken precautions! You let ’em take my daughter and my money and then, trying to square things away with your own conscience, you go after ’em and what d’you bring me back? Susan? My money? No! You drag in one dead man and another dyin’ and that dyin’ man claims it was you got word to him and Matthews about the special cargo on that stage!”
“Talk sense!” snapped
Nash, suddenly enraged. “Why in hell would I do that? Dekker hates my guts, that’s why he’s accusin’ me.”
“Not any more, he ain’t! He’s dead now and that’s why his words lend so much weight! A dyin’ man don’t lie! He’s got nothin’ to gain by it.”
“And what the hell would I have to gain by turnin’ traitor and throwin’ in with the likes of Cash Matthews?”
“I’ll tell you what! You know the deal between me and Wells Fargo has been finalized, for a damn big price. You help set-up that robbery and Matthews gets the money and Susan. He can bleed me white of everything I own, including the house in Denver. He can use Susan to pressure me into working on Wells Fargo so they take an alternative route instead of the right-of-way through his range. And you? You get your land back and maybe some more range thrown in and no more trouble from Matthews. He comes out the winner, but you run a damn good second place!”
“You’re plumb loco,” said Nash, his voice deadly quiet now. “Dekker was lyin’ when he accused me of settin’ things up!”
“Could be,” Garth admitted, surprisingly. And then: “That’s the other way it could go. Matthews wasn’t in it at all. Just you and Dekker, and a couple of hard cases. But he tried to double-cross you by shooting you down. You went after him and squared it away and then came back in toting the bodies, looking for glory, while you got Susan and the cash hidden away somewhere.”
“The hell with you, Garth! I’ll come back when you’ve calmed down. You’re off your head. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe you really believe the hogwash you been spoutin’ at me, but I ain’t stayin’ to listen any longer.”
The office door was wrenched open and a white-faced Nash stomped out, arm clamped against his wounded side. But Garth was after him in a flash, grabbing his arm and spinning him about to face him.
“Hold it! You ain’t going anywhere but to jail! You don’t walk out of here, mister, not that easy!” Garth looked around the stunned office wildly. “You ... Pop Moran and Dakota. Put this man under your guns and lock him up while I send for a marshal or a Ranger ... ”
Nash wrenched his arm free of Garth’s grip, looked at the other guards tightly. “He’s loco,” Nash said.
“Hold him! That’s an order!” yelled Garth and went to grab Nash again. Nash spun and clipped the older man on the jaw, sending him staggering against the wall. Garth slipped and slid to the floor, dazed. Nash dropped a hand to gun butt as he moved away warily, watching Pop and Dakota.
“Stay out of it!” Nash snapped.
“Judas, Clay, you didn’t have to hit him!” protested Pop Moran. “He’s just upset over Susan, for God’s sake!”
“I ain’t standin’ here while he accuses me of that!” Nash snapped and he whipped his Colt free of leather abruptly, notched back the hammer. “Don’t do it, Dakota!”
Dakota’s hand had been sliding along the counter towards his sawn-off shotgun but he froze at Nash’s command. His eyes were slitted, a tall, grim-faced man, watching Nash’s every movement.
“You’ll only make it worse by runnin’, Clay,” Pop said.
“It sure don’t look good, pardner,” Dakota allowed.
“Look good or not, I ain’t stayin’ here to be bad-named and locked up,” Nash said, backing towards the door. “You can all go to hell!”
Dakota made a lunge for Nash and the Texan stepped back, laid his gun barrel alongside Dakota’s head, just over the ear. The man went down to his knees with a grunt, swaying there, a little blood trickling from the wound. Nash shoved the gun at Pop Moran as the man started forward and then froze.
“Shuck them guns, Pop,” Nash ordered and the older man sighed, shaking his head as he undid his gun belt. Walt Garth got groggily to his feet as Nash stepped back through the door and slammed it after him.
“Get after him!” yelled Garth and he snatched up Dakota’s sawn-off shotgun, getting in the way of Pop who was trying to get a gun out of his belt on the floor. They tangled again trying to get around the dazed Dakota and then they had the door open and were running out onto the boardwalk. Nash was already halfway down Main Street, lying low over his mount’s neck. He turned and fired a couple of wild shots as Garth let loose with the shotgun. The roar shook the windows but Nash was well out of range. Pop lowered his unfired gun slowly as Nash disappeared around a bend.
“Why didn’t you fire?” demanded Garth.
“Hell, Walt, it happened so fast! And it just don’t seem like Clay Nash ...”
Dakota staggered out, holding his head and Detective James Hume came running around the side of the building, his Smith and Wesson Schofield in his hand. He looked sharply at Garth.
“Nash,” said Garth succinctly. “You were right, Jim. He was in on it, all right.” He turned to Dakota and Pop, seeing their bewildered faces. “Jim’s had his eye on Nash for some time. Seems a few hold-ups took place after Nash’d been seen drinking with a hombre Jim knows has road agent connections. Looks like he’s been gettin’ a rake-off and this is the big one.”
“Can’t believe that!” Pop said. “Can you, Dakota?”
Dakota rubbed at his swollen head. “Wouldn’t have if he hadn’t clipped me, mebbe. And he’s gettin’ away while we’re palaverin’ here.”
“We’ll get him, don’t worry,” Jim Hume said. “You fellers get a posse together right now.” He glanced at Garth. “You shouldn’t have let your temper get the better of you, Walt. You spooked him, just as we had him cold with that admission of Dekker’s.”
Pop and Dakota exchanged worried glances as they moved off, still disbelieving and stunned by Nash’s departure.
“Yeah,” said Garth with a sigh. “My fault, all right. Sorry, Jim.”
“Can’t be helped,” Hume said philosophically. “But we’ll get him. I’ve been trailin’ Black Bart for five years and I don’t aim to give up till I get him. Same applies to Clay Nash. Might take a spell, but I’ll get him, all right. I’ll do it.”
Hume and Garth went back into the depot.
~*~
“But I—I plain don’t savvy what’s happened, Clay!” said Mary Summers, obviously bewildered as she put a new bandage on Nash’s wound, in her room in the adobe way-station. “Why are you here without the stage? And what’s your hurry? Why d’you want dad and me to lie to anyone who asks for you? Even Wells Fargo men.”
“That’ll do fine, Mary,” Nash said, looking at the clean bandages. “Thanks. Can’t explain now. But I’ve got to have a fresh mount, some food and ammunition. And an extra saddle canteen if you can spare it.”
“Well, Clay you’ve chosen a bad time to come,” Mary said, still frowning. “We’re waiting on supplies coming in and our stocks are very low at present. Same with ammunition. Dad never keeps much at the best of times.”
“Damn it, I’ve got to have them things, and fast!” snapped Nash.
“What’s gotten into you, Clay?” Mary demanded. “You’re jumpy and just plain bushed with tiredness. You need a rest, so why don’t you lie here for a spell?”
“Got no time to rest!” Nash growled. “Where’s Jed, anyway?”
“Two horses strayed off. He’s gone after them. But, Clay, can’t you tell me—”
“I’ve told you what I want. That’s all I aim to tell you! Except I ain’t takin’ this kind of raw deal from anyone, let alone Walt Garth!”
Nash shouldered roughly past the girl and went into the kitchen, grabbing up a near empty flour sack, spilling out the remaining white powder carelessly as he opened cupboards and shoved in cans, a newly-cut loaf of cornpone, some coffee, sugar, the last piece of cloth-wrapped bacon. He passed up some eggs, grabbed half a dozen potatoes and carrots and shoved them into the bag, too. Mary appeared at the doorway and watched, her face incredulous at his behavior.
“I just told you we were short of food!” she snapped, hurrying forward. “What d’you think you’re doing!”
He pushed her aside, wrenched open a cupboard and took the three cartons of ammunition there. He spill
ed several cartridges from one but ignored them as he shook the girl off and strode out into the yard. He unsaddled his lathered mount and carried the saddle, together with the sack of grub, to the corrals. Mary, still not believing what she was seeing, followed and watched as he chose a big chestnut and threw the saddle across its back. It was her father’s own mount.
“You take that and I’ll see you’re charged with horse stealing!” she shouted.
Nash laughed harshly. “Least of my worries.” He swung awkwardly into the saddle and threw her a mock salute. “Hasta luego. But I doubt if we ever will see each other again.”
“Clay!” she ran to grab the mount’s reins as he started forward. “Clay, for heaven’s sake!”
He wrenched the horse’s head around and jammed in his heels, lifting the big animal to a run almost instantly, galloping off along the trail. Belatedly, her mind in a whirl, Mary ran into the house and grabbed the old buffalo Sharps rifle from the wall pegs above the door. She stepped out onto the porch, notched back the hammer and fired without really sighting. The gun’s recoil sent her staggering back and Clay Nash rode on down the trail untouched.
She stared after him, tears beginning to form in her eyes and then they brimmed over and rolled silently down her cheeks, cutting little twisting trails through the dust on her skin.
“What the hell’s all the shootin’? And who’s that forkin’ my chestnut?”
She turned sharply at the sound of her father’s voice. Jed Summers came around the side of the adobe building leading the two horses which had strayed. He looked at his daughter in amazement as she dropped the Sharps and rushed to him. throwing her arms about him, hugging him tightly.
“Hades!” he breathed. “What’s happened, daughter?”
Between sobs she told him, “You’ll never believe it, Dad. You’ll never believe it! I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. It’s Clay ... I don’t understand it at all, but ... somehow ... he’s ... he’s gone bad!”
