by Brett Waring
He closed the door and came back into the room. Warily, he picked up his Colt and slowly dropped it into his holster as he saw that Nash still held his own Peacemaker. Nash nodded and put the gun back in its holster but rested his hand on the butt.
“As I was sayin’, Clay, what’s your hurry in wantin’ to find out a few things?”
“Just don’t aim to go into anythin’ blind, is all. You can start by tellin’ me that you were behind Dekker holdin’ up that stage and taking Garth’s cashbox and his daughter.”
Matthews didn’t like it. That was plain on his face. Despite the reports that showed that Nash was a wanted man, he couldn’t yet swallow the change in the man and he was reluctant to admit to anything incriminating. But he knew Nash was no fool and, what was more, he was now afraid of the big Texan. Nash was fast and deadly and the odds never seemed to worry him. Hell, look how he’d survived that desert with forty men hunting him down! He’d trailed Dekker and Rio with lead in him and killed them both. Now he was putting on the pressure and Matthews knew he was going to have to tell the truth before Nash got really riled again.
“Yeah, well we had a bit of an arrangement with that drunken driver.”
“Skelton?” Nash asked.
“Yeah. Dekker paid him for information on stage run schedules. It was him told us about the express box and Susan Garth going to be on that Denver run.”
“And Skelton got a bullet for his trouble.”
Matthews shrugged. “You know you can’t trust a drunk. Something as big as this, we figured it’d be the best way. You were to get it first, then Skelton ... Only Dekker didn’t do a good enough job on you.”
“Good enough for him to blow the express box and kidnap the girl. Have you sent her back to Garth yet or are you still holdin’ her?”
Matthews hesitated, wary still, but finally said, “Still got her.”
“What in hell for?” Nash asked. “You got near every cent he owns in that express box.”
“Figured I’d let him sweat a week or so, get him ready to do anythin’ I ask. The girl’s my ace in the hole, Clay. I can make Garth work on Wells Fargo so they switch that stage route from across my land and drop the court action. I don’t want any public highway through my range.”
“Up to you, I guess, but I don’t savvy your attitude. Wells Fargo would pay you for use of the right-of-way.”
“Not if they get deeds to the strip. And that’s the trouble. I figured my pa had registered it at the Lands Agency but he never did get around to it. If I lose it, it’ll cut my spread in two. It’ll have to be fenced, right smack in the way of my herds goin’ to winter graze. It’ll mean I have to put on extra men and ... Hell, you don’t want to hear about all that. But I need that Strip and I aim to hold it.”
“Where you got the girl?”
Matthews shook his head slowly. “That, I don’t tell you. I don’t trust you that much …”
Nash smiled faintly. “Didn’t figure you would.”
Then his Peacemaker was suddenly rock-steady in his hand and the hammer notched back. Matthews froze, slowly lifted his hands above his head as Nash removed his gun from the holster and dropped it onto the desk.
“So, I was right!” Matthews said, breathing fast. “It was all hogwash, that Wells Fargo reward and all ... It was all framed just so’s you could get in here after the gal!”
Nash no longer tried to deny it. “Too good a chance to pass up. Dekker made his accusation and James Hume, Wells Fargo’s Chief of Detectives, happened to be in the Warbonnet depot at the time. He saw a way of planting me close to you. if Garth accused me of being in on the kidnapping and so on ... It worked well enough.”
“You ain’t found the gal yet,” Matthews pointed out, red with anger. “Nor will you!”
“We’ll see.” Nash backed to the door, turned the key. Then he lifted the Colt slowly, sighted along the barrel. Matthews faced him squarely, unafraid.
“You won’t kill me, Clay. Not in cold blood like this.”
The Colt blasted, rattling the windows in the room and Matthews screamed, clutching at his left hand where the bullet had gone clear through. Matthews sobbed in pain and blood poured from his shattered hand. He turned his agonized face to Nash as the Texan thumbed back the hammer again. As the barrel drew a bead on him a second time, Matthews backed up against his desk, still holding his smashed hand.
His eyes were wide with fear and his mouth worked silently as Nash’s finger tightened on the trigger. The Colt roared and Matthews spilled half over his desk, grunting. Blood sprayed onto the shoulder of his shirt and trickled down his neck from his bullet-clipped right ear. He stared in terror at Nash, wincing as the hammer notched back a third time.
“Left kneecap,” Nash said casually, chillingly, lowering the gun barrel and lining it up on Matthews’ leg.
Matthews gulped as there came the sound of hammering at the door. His men outside were yelling to see if everything was all right.
“Tell ’em,” Nash ordered and Matthews didn’t hesitate.
“It’s okay,” he gasped. “Nash is just—just showin’ me some gun tricks ... It’s okay, get back to work.”
Nash nodded his approval. “Still the left kneecap ... ”
“God, wait up!” Matthews gasped. “Don’t ... don’t cripple me, Clay. Blamed gal ain’t worth that ... She’s here. In the house. Up in the loft ...”
“Better be,” warned Nash, lowering the gun hammer.
“She is ... Judas, I’m bleedin’ to death!” He whipped off his neckerchief and wrapped it around his shattered left hand. “But won’t do you no good. You’ll never get off the ranch.”
“I will with you ridin’ along,” Nash said and grabbed Matthews by the shoulder, shoving him roughly towards the door. “Now, open up and the first sign of any trouble, you get a bullet in the kidneys. Or the stomach ... But you can bet it’ll be some place that’ll give you plenty of hell before you cash in your chips. Savvy?”
Matthews nodded miserably and turned the key in the lock.
They went out onto the porch and along to the main door of the house. Several hard cases watched from the yard but at Matthews’ swift and urgent plea to stay out of it, they remained where they were. Nash shoved Matthews into the house and followed, his Peacemaker only inches from the man’s spine.
“Susan?” called Nash. “Susan Garth? ... It’s me—Clay Nash ... ”
He heard a muffled thumping from overhead and guessed she was banging her bound feet against the floor of the loft. Nash shoved his gun barrel under Matthews’ good ear.
“Show me how to get up there ... Easy, now ... ”
Matthews swallowed and nodded eagerly: he was beaten and knew it.
~*~
Susan Garth wasn’t the greatest horsewoman in Texas but she gritted her teeth and hung on as they rode through the rough country at the edge of the badlands. She was disheveled and dirty from her long imprisonment in the loft and she was shaken up by the experience. Her face was stained with tear tracks but she held her head stubbornly high, despite the jolting of the big ranch workhorse under her.
Nash rode alongside and, on the other side of him and a little ahead, rode Matthews, his face gray with pain, his wounded left hand shoved inside his shirt. Blood from his ear had dried on his neck and he rode with a grimness that kept his big body ramrod stiff.
“We’ll rest on that ridge over there,” Nash said, pointing.
“Thank goodness,” said Susan feelingly.
While Matthews and the girl sat on the ground, Nash climbed a rock and stared back the way they had come. Then he saw the dust-cloud he’d been expecting. Matthews’ hard cases were on their trail. They wouldn’t get close enough to make it dangerous for Matthews, but they’d be there along the back-trail. Matthews must be paying them well for them to stick so grimly. He climbed down and went back to where the girl and the rancher rested.
“Thought you’d have had the coffee brewin’ by now. Susan,” he said.
She snapped her head up. “I beg your pardon? ... I—I’m not here to be your slave, Clay Nash! I’ve been through a—a terrible experience. You can’t expect me to wait on you hand and foot—”
“I do,” Nash cut in sharply. “If you want to get out of this, you’ve got to stop feelin’ sorry for yourself and help out. It’s a long ways yet to Iron Ridge way-station.”
“I—I don’t feel well! I’ve had men pawing me, terrible food, little water—and then tied hand and foot in the dark for over a week ...” She began to sob. “How else should I feel but ... but ... awful! You should be taking care of me instead of bullying me ... ”
“On your feet,” Nash said, grabbing her arm and yanking her unceremoniously to her feet. “Mount up, we’re movin’ out ... If you’d had a fire goin’ and the coffee pot on we could’ve had a meal but we won’t bother now. We’ll ride till sundown, eat a spell, then ride all night.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to ride all night!” said the girl.
Nash didn’t argue. He simply lifted her bodily onto her horse and whirled swiftly as he heard Matthews move behind him. His gun leapt into his hand and Matthews froze, his good arm upraised, holding a ball-sized rock. He stared at the cocked gun, tightened his lips and let the rock drop, going to his own mount and stepping up into leather.
“Why not give up, Nash?” he said. “Leastways, you could turn me loose. I’d be happy to ride back to M-Bar-M and not come after you.”
“Huh!” was all Nash said to that suggestion and he holstered his gun and swung aboard the chestnut. As he settled into leather, he looked at Matthews. “I’m takin’ you in, Matthews. Wells Fargo want you for robbery and kidnapping ... Move!”
He rammed his mount into Matthews’ horse and got the animal moving, then he took off his hat, lightly slapped it across the rump of Susan’s mount. They rode down the far side of the ridge into the badlands.
They made Iron Ridge the following afternoon, horses lathered and jaded, themselves trail-weary and reeling in the saddle with fatigue. Mary and Jed Summers came running out as Nash led the way into the yard. They helped the sobbing Susan down and Mary took her into the house as Nash swung down stiffly, nodded to Jed as Matthews began to dismount.
“Sorry to bring trouble on you, Jed, but Matthews’ hard cases are on our back-trail. They’ll be here before sundown, I reckon. Got some place we can lock him up?”
Jed scratched at his stubbled jaw. “Tool shed back of the stables has a lock on the door ... Say, you was just fakin’, huh? You were workin’ for Wells Fargo undercover all along, Clay?”
Nash nodded. “Explain later, Jed. Can you get a gun and put Matthews away while I get these horses out of sight and set things up inside?”
“Sure.”
Jed hurried inside, got his shotgun and came back to where Matthews was sitting on the bottom rail of the corral fence. He prodded the rancher to his feet and moved him across the yard towards the stables, the shotgun barrels hard against his spine. Nash unsaddled the mounts and took them behind the adobe house. He got his Winchester from the saddle scabbard and what ammunition there was in his saddlebags and started for the adobe house. His hand was on the doorknob when there was a yell from across the yard ... at the stables.
“Watch out, Clay!”
It was Jed Summers’ voice and he staggered into sight from a side door, blood showing on his scalp, waving his arms violently. Nash saw Matthews then, coming out of the front of the stables, the shotgun lifting in his one good hand. Nash dived for the floorboards as the gun thundered and the charge of buckshot smashed in the front window. He heard Susan scream somewhere in the house. Then he was rolling off the low porch, coming to one knee, bringing up the Winchester as Matthews cocked the shotgun’s second barrel and lined up his shot.
Nash fired the instant that Matthews dropped hammer and his lead took the rancher through the middle of the face. The shotgun tilted, roared, and blew out part of the stable roof. Matthews went down and stayed down.
Nash walked forward as Jed shuffled up, dabbing at the cut in his scalp. “Great Hades, Clay, I’m sorry! While I was unlockin’ the door he slammed my head into the wall ... ”
“Likely best this way,” Nash said, looking down at the dead rancher. Mary came running up and, behind her, Susan appeared on the house porch, the back of a hand against her mouth. “Now that Matthews is dead, his men don’t have any reason to tangle with us. He paid their wages, that’s the only reason they were after us. They’ll likely scatter when they know he’s finished ... It’s all over, Mary.”
She smiled. “You sure had us fooled, Clay.”
“That was the idea. Sorry I had to play it rough ... Susan all right?”
“She will be. Badly shaken up at the moment ... What about Mr. Garth’s money?”
“In Matthews’ saddlebags. But we’ll let his men think it’s still back at the ranch. That’ll be an added notion for ’em to turn back.” He looked at Susan and said, slowly, “She came apart pretty easy. Guess she’s more town gal than Westerner.”
Mary Summers smiled slowly. “Well, we Westerners are pretty tough but I don’t think I could have gone through what she did without being shaken up ...”
Nash nodded. “Long as she’s okay now. Maybe one day she’ll realize just how many men stuck their necks out for her.”
“You the most, Clay,” Mary said slipping her arm through his.
They turned and headed towards the adobe building.
~*~
Much to Nash’s discomfort, Wait Garth insisted on thanking him publicly in the Warbonnet Assembly Hall, handing him a check on behalf of Wells Fargo for one thousand dollars. Nash reluctantly made his speech of acceptance and was glad to get down from the platform, a mite embarrassed and mingling with the folk Garth had gathered for the presentation.
“Thank you again, Clay,” smiled Susan Garth, resplendent in a new dress sent down specially on the stage from Denver. “I’m sorry I was so uppity on the way back ...”
“Glad it all worked out well, Susan,” Nash said and turned as he felt someone grip his arm. It was Mary Summers, wearing a new dress, store-bought right here in Warbonnet, but looking fresh and bright with her hair piled high. He smiled. “Well, you sure look handsome, Mary, you surely do.”
She positively glowed with pleasure and tightened her grip on his arm. “Dad’s got a band coming, so there’ll be dancing. Will you have the first one with me?”
“I guess so. But—heck, Mary, I’m not so hot as a dancin’ man—”
“Come along!”
But her smile faded as Jim Hume suddenly appeared and casually but firmly worked his way between Mary and Nash. He gave her a smile but it was a mechanical movement of his lips, no more.
“Have to delay things a spell, Miss Summers,” he said politely. “Not for long ... Have to speak with Clay. You’ll excuse us?”
Mary stood there, trying not to frown as Hume deftly urged Nash away, pushing through the crowds and finally leading him through a rear doorway into the cool night. Hume offered Nash a cigarillo and took one himself. When the smokes were going, the Chief of Detectives said:
“You did a good job, Clay. Handled the whole thing just fine. No wasted time, got right down to it and outsmarted the enemy. Head office is mighty pleased with you on your first undercover chore.”
“Yeah. Their check showed that,” Nash said quietly.
“Needn’t be your last undercover job, though.”
Nash looked at him quizzically.
“You’re too good a man to waste ridin’ shotgun, Clay. We need men on our detective force like you, tough, fast with a gun, well up in frontier lore, tenacious ... We want you to join us as an undercover agent ... You’ll likely get sent all over the country, wherever we’ve got trouble. But I won’t fool you. It’s tough work. Several of our agents have been found with bullets in the back of their heads ... Pay’s not bad, but, apart from that, can’t offer you much by way of inc
entive. Except, maybe you’ll have a chance to look in on Mary Summers once in a while ... Let me know what you think, huh?”
Hume left him and went back into the hall. Nash frowned, smoking thoughtfully, looking out into the night. By the time he’d finished the cigarillo, he had made up his mind. He went into the hall looking for Jim Hume. When he found him, he said, simply, “I’m your man.”
Hume smiled as they gripped hands firmly.
Then Clay Nash went to find Mary and dance half the night away.
The Clay Nash Series by Brett Waring
Undercover Gun
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