Clay Nash 4

by Brett Waring

  Nash stood up, holstering the Colt, hefting the rifle in his left hand. “I’d better move then. I sure am hungry.”

  Hammond stood, too, lifted a hand to stop Nash leaving right away. “The knowledge of explosives will be an important part of your assignment, Nash. You sure you can carry it off?”

  “I reckon,” Nash said with a crooked smile. “I had an assignment one time to track down the feller responsible for working his way across the country, blowing open every Wells Fargo safe he came across. He taught me a lot about explosives before I arrested him and put him away.”

  “Just so long as you’re sure, because those hombres play for keeps,” the Ranger pointed out.

  “I’m sure,” Nash said. “The fellow who taught me was Matt Dundee.”

  ~*~

  Ellen Bray lived in a house near the top of the hill on the north side of Ojo Medina, with her uncle, the town’s lawman.

  She was small and petite, neat in her dress and habits and her big dark eyes had filled with tears when Brad Burns broke the news to her about her brother’s death. Ho had not gone into all the details, but had simply said that Larry had died in a stampede out on the Pecos. Those few words had conjured up for him the terrible vision of Larry’s death: his terrified face as his horse had thrown him directly into the path of the panicked steers, the tumbling body being tossed from glinting horns before disappearing amongst the heaving red hides and, finally, the mess of bloody rags lying trampled into the churned-up earth after the steers had passed on. They had, literally, scraped Larry Bray up with a shovel, dumping the remains into a packing case before a brief burial on a windswept knoll overlooking the river crossing.

  Her uncle, Luke Bray, the sheriff, middle-aged, rheumy-eyed and a hefty drinker, had taken the news silently, then used the boy’s death as an excuse to open another bottle of bourbon. He had been no comfort at all to the sobbing girl and Burns had surprised himself by making an effort to ease Ellen’s grief. His approach, spontaneous and sincere, had worked, and when the girl learned that he had been on the trail-drive to gain experience for a book, she insisted that he take over her brother’s room in the big house and gave him the run of the place and use of the den for working in.

  “Well, I dunno that I can take advantage of your fine offer, ma’am,” Burns had said at first. “I mean, I got enough money to pay for a hotel room for some weeks ...”

  “Nonsense! You were Larry’s friend and you were kind enough to bring us his belongings,” Ellen said. “You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. And I’m sure you’ll find it much quieter working here than in a hotel room.”

  “We-ell, that’s likely true. Will it be okay with your uncle?”

  Burns had glanced towards the sheriff who was downing another glass of whisky. He paused and looked at Burns. “Hell, yeah,” the lawman said. “It’s Ellen’s house, anyway. Legacy from her mother. You ever written anythin’ before, young feller?”

  “Sure. Had a few articles published in magazines back East. And a serial about the capture of a gang of road-agents by a Wells Fargo man. I was there, so it was an eyewitness account.”

  He spoke so feelingly that the girl looked at him in surprise.

  “Didn’t it pay well?” she asked.

  “Mmm? Oh, yeah, paid well enough. What made you ask that?”

  “The way you spoke ”

  Burns nodded abruptly. "Well, there’s a kind of story behind that but I don’t have to go into it.”

  “Do tell!” exclaimed Ellen, genuinely interested. "And tell it just the way it was, Brad Burns! As an English teacher, I’m very interested in writing and especially in true experiences.”

  “Well, it was a case of mistaken identity, you see,” he began, unable to keep the tautness out of his voice. He clenched his hands between his knees. “Seems I looked like a road-agent this Wells Fargo man, Clay Nash, was lookin’ for. In fact, I’d been slugged and robbed by that same man and because I was where Nash expected him to be, he arrested me and I was sentenced to hang.” 1

  He had the attention of them both now, the lawman holding a fresh drink untouched.

  “They put me in with a couple of hardcases, enemies of Nash,” continued Burns, “and they busted out and took me with ’em.”

  “You broke out of prison!” exclaimed Luke Bray.

  Burns nodded. “I was going to hang otherwise. Anyway, in the meantime, Nash had discovered I wasn’t the man he wanted, and the other two hombres set a trap for him and took him prisoner. They’d told me I’d have the chance to square-up to Nash in a shoot-out, but seems they were only usin’ me, and they aimed to torture Nash worse’n the Apaches before killin’ him.”

  “You—you were a party to that?” the girl asked in disbelief.

  Burns shook his head swiftly. “No, I didn't want that, I wanted to square away with Nash in a fair shoot-out. The superintendent had given me a pretty bad time in that prison. He figured I had a lot of gold stashed away and he worked me over some. Which is why I wear my nose kind of crooked now and why I’ve got teeth missin’.”

  Ellen winced. Burns went on, “Anyways, I couldn’t let ’em torture Nash so I cut him loose and there was a gunfight and we downed the two hardcases. Nash was wounded or else I’d have squared up with him then and there. Wells Fargo paid me a reward for my part in the deal and I never saw Nash again. But we’ll meet some day and I’ll get even with him, all right.”

  “Did you put that in your story, too?” Ellen asked, her disapproval plain.

  “No, but maybe it showed through that I hate the man’s guts ... if you’ll pardon the expression, ma’am. I had to change his name in the story, of course, so I wouldn’t give away his cover for other assignments for Wells Fargo, but I haven’t forgiven him, nor will I, till I get my chance to face him down.”

  “But surely the man took the trouble to clear your name while you were in prison!”

  “Just luck that he located the other hombre who looked like me. He was dead, anyways. No, I went through too much in that prison because Nash wouldn’t believe my story in the first place. If ever we meet again, I’ll have my reckoning with him!”

  His grim face told the girl that there was nothing she nor anyone else could say to change his mind.

  “Well, I hope your book is successful,” she said finally, smiling tentatively at him. “As I said, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. And if there’s anything I can do to help with your book, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, ma’am, I will.”

  “And the name is ‘Ellen’.”

  Burns smiled. “Thanks, Ellen.”

  Luke Bray glanced from his niece to Burns and downed his drink. “Well, I’d best start my rounds. I hear there could be a ruckus tonight. The Forrester brothers are in town with another load of gold nuggets from their mine and whoopin’-’er-up ...”

  The girl looked immediately worried. “Uncle Luke, be careful. They’re wild men, especially that terrible Zack Forrester.”

  Bray smiled crookedly. “Don’t you worry none, Ellen. I can handle the Forresters. I’ll give ’em a little rope and when they get drunk and look ready to really cut loose, I’ll move in on ’em and put ’em in a cell overnight. I always do that and they come quiet enough.”

  “Yes, but ... well, be careful, Uncle. There’s always the night when they might not feel like going quietly.”

  Bray slapped a hand against his gun butt. “That’s why folk pay me to wear a badge, Ellen. To handle the tough ones. See you tonight then, Burns.”

  “Sure, Sheriff. Adios.”

  The lawman went out and Burns saw that the girl still looked uneasy.

  “You worried about him?” he asked.

  Ellen started. “Yes, I am, a little. He's drinking rather heavily these days—much more than he used to. He has a good reputation as a lawman, tough and fair and honest, but ... well, the Forresters are really hard men. They work a mine somewhere back in the hills, turn up in town occa
sionally with some nuggets and stick around a while, getting drunk and fighting. Uncle Luke seems able to manage them, but I’m not so sure he’ll always get them to cooperate and if he’s—well, been drinking …”

  “You figure his gun arm might be kind of slowed down, by liquor?’’

  Ellen sighed and nodded. “He’s getting on now. But come along, let me show you your room and the den where you can work.”

  Burns followed her out and though she chattered on almost non-stop, pointing out things that had belonged to her brother, recalling old times, showing him tintypes of her mother and father, Burns could tell she was still worried about her uncle. As she showed him the roll-top desk he could use, and the drawer that held ink and blotters and pens, Burns said quietly, “I’m not such a slouch with a gun myself.”

  She turned slowly and closed the drawer without looking at it. She studied Burns’ face.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean I’m pretty fast with a gun. In fact, Nash offered me a job with Wells Fargo because of my gun-speed. And what I mean, Ellen, is that if you want me to, I’ll kind of mosey on down to the saloon and stay in the background but be close on hand if your uncle should need help when he braces these Forrester brothers. What do you say?”

  Ellen frowned. “Why would you do that? For a man you don’t even like very much ... Oh, don’t deny it, Brad. I saw your disapproval of Uncle Luke in your face.”

  He moved his feet a little awkwardly. “We-ell ... Nothin’ to do with me, really, whether he drinks too much or lot, I guess. But, that makes no never-mind. Do you want me to back him up if he needs it? Or does he have deputies?”

  She shook her head. “No deputies. The town's not big enough, folk say, and Uncle Luke manages quite well to keep law and order here. But—thank you, Brad. I’d be grateful if you were sort of—just around.”

  “Glad to help out,” Burns said, hitching at the gun-rig round his waist. “I’ll stroll down town and hang around the bar for a spell. If your uncle looks like he needs someone to back him, well, I’ll step in.”

  She saw him to the front door, lifting a hand slowly as he walked away down the hill towards the town.

  ~*~

  Clay Nash rode the train from El Paso to Sierra Blanca and dropped off just outside of town when the locomotive slowed to a crawl for the grade. He preferred his own saddle rig but had had to leave it behind in El Paso with his firearms: a man on the dodge would be loco to tote a heavy saddle rig around with him.

  It was nearing sundown when he hit Sierra Blanca, walking in from across the railroad tracks, but well down from the depot. There was plenty of bustle going on in the railyards and he was sure no one paid him any attention. The Ranger in town would have been notified by now of the plan, but Nash figured to keep well away from the Ranger offices: it wasn’t all that far now to Ojo Medina and he didn’t know who might see him coming or going in the law building.

  He had to make his own plans from here on in and he would have to improvise to suit the situation. At present he was on foot and needed a horse to take him to Ojo Medina. There was no connecting train to the town, though a stage line, one of Wells Fargo’s, linking Sierra Blanca with Ojo Medina. He figured it would be too risky riding the stage. He was just as likely to run into a shotgun guard or a driver who knew him and would give the game away.

  By now, the fake ‘Wanted’ dodgers would be appearing along the border and, as he approached the rear of the rail depot, he saw one tacked to the wall. That was good. Likely there were other dodgers around town and it wouldn’t hurt any for him to be seen. Likely the citizens wouldn’t figure he was supposed to be the ‘Matt Dundee’ on the dodger right away, but, later, when they had cause to recollect, they would remember seeing him.

  And he aimed to give someone in this town cause to remember him. It would be good for his cover, for word to run ahead to Ojo Medina that he had tangled with the law in Sierra Blanca, right under the noses of the local Rangers.

  It was simple enough: he needed a horse, so he would steal one. That would be in keeping with Matt Dundee, escaped convict, and he would make sure he was seen. Then, if the Forresters or anyone else in Ojo Medina were involved in these hold-ups, they would be more likely to accept him a little easier if he turned up on a stolen horse, with the prison escape to back him up.

  Once past the depot, Nash, carrying his Winchester in a plain scuffed-leather scabbard, swung down the boardwalk into the main part of town. Shadows were lengthening and he kept to them as he moved along, drawing a couple of curious glances from passers-by. That suited him, but he would have to be careful that someone didn’t recognize him right away from his likeness on the Wanted dodgers and call in the Rangers ... he wasn’t sure if all the Rangers in town had been notified, or just the officer in charge. It would be ironic if he were shot down by some eager badge-toter, thinking he was doing his duty and ridding the West of a desperate character.

  He passed a diner and the savory smells made his nostrils twitch. He wondered whether to risk going in for a meal, but it was a chance he didn’t have to take. The big man sitting at a rear table, his back to the window, was wearing a drab khaki shirt that looked like it could be part of a Ranger’s outfit. No sense in pushing his luck, he figured, and swung on past, stomach rumbling.

  He deliberately knocked into a middle-aged couple outside the general store, where the store man was lighting a lantern under the awning. Nash picked up the woman’s parcels and touched a hand to his hat brim, mumbling an apology, trying to look shifty. When he saw the store man looking at him closely, he let the light wash over his face a moment before he ducked his head so that the brim of his hat cast its shadow across his features. Then he hurried on and could almost feel the stares of the people watching him go. He hoped one of them would recall him later.

  Nash figured he had established his presence in town. He wasn’t willing to risk any more. So he headed for the livery and went down the alley beside the big building, coming out near the corrals at the rear. He walked to the rear door and leaned against the frame, looking into the lantern-lit interior. He could see only one stable-hand forking hay at the far end and he figured the others were at supper, which suited him fine.

  He walked in, carrying his rifle in its scabbard, and the stable-hand, a lanky youth in bib-and-brace coveralls, glanced up and nodded civilly.

  “Howdy,” he greeted, leaning on his pitchfork.

  Nash didn’t return the greeting. He stood in the lantern light and looked at the youth with hard eyes.

  “Come for a hoss,” he said shortly.

  The youth stirred uneasily but said readily enough, “Sure. Just tell me which one it is and I’ll throw your saddle on him.”

  Nash grunted, suddenly shook the rifle free of its scabbard and pointed the weapon at the wide-eyed stable-hand. The youth sucked in a noisy breath as Nash notched back the hammer to full cock. His knuckles were white where they gripped the handle of the pitchfork.

  “The fastest bronc in the place, that’s mine,” Nash said curtly. “Got it, button?”

  The youth’s lower lip trembled as he nodded. He looked around wildly but there was no one he could call for help.

  “Look, mister, see here—” he stammered.

  “You better saddle a hoss faster’n you talk, sonny, or you’ll be wearin’ an extra navel!” growled Nash.

  “Y-y-yessir!” breathed the youth, leaving the fork standing in the hay pile and sliding along the wall, his bug-eyes watching the muzzle of the rifle follow his every movement. “I—I reckon Mr. Linton, the storekeeper, has the—the fastest bronc ...”

  “Get it!” Nash snapped and followed the stable-hand down the passage. In minutes, the youth had the horse saddled and ready.

  Nash quit Sierra Blanca before it was full dark, forking Linton’s big bay gelding, riding fast for Ojo Medina. He had left the terrified stable-hand bound and gagged in a rear stall and figured he would have worked himself free in about a hal
f hour. That would give him plenty of time to cover his tracks and for the word to be telegraphed on ahead.

  He just hoped that someone from the gang would get to hear about it before some trigger-happy lawman who hadn’t been warned spotted him and tried to do his duty!

  ~*~

  As soon as Brad Burns walked into the big saloon in Ojo Medina, he knew it was already too late. He shouldn’t have stopped on the way in to buy that supply of writing paper at the store, or the box of candy for Ellen Bray. He should have gone straight to the saloon.

  Burns entered the saloon with his packages under one arm and stopped dead. Men were getting up from tables and moving back around the walls, all staring towards the bar, which was deserted except for Sheriff Luke Bray and two big men. They were twins, no doubt about it. Except for their clothes, it would have been difficult to tell one from the other, Burns figured, seeing the same cast of brutish features, the same cruel twist to the mouths, the same drunken, reckless mood reflected in their glittering eyes.

  These were men out for trouble; it stuck out a mile. He walked quietly to a nearby table and set down the package of paper and the wrapped box of candy. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and made his way unobtrusively to the bar.

  “Look, fellers,” the sheriff was saying, a tight edge to his voice, “you’ve always played along before. Now come quietly before we have trouble that won’t do any of us any good. A night’s sleep in the cells and I’ll let you out come mornin’, as always. No fines, no hassles. What d’you say?”

  “We say keep your nose outa our business, Sheriff,” snarled Lem Forrester, swaying a little. “This time we’re really gonna howl, so you go hide your head some place and leave us be, huh?”

  “Can’t do that, Lem. Now, be reasonable.” The sheriff was getting desperate and he put a hand on Lem Forrester’s arm. Lem swore, shoved the lawman back violently and reached for his gun.

  “Hold it!” yelled Burns from halfway down the bar. Zack Forrester spun towards the sound of Burns’ voice and Luke Bray also looked in that direction, startled, but Lem Forrester was concentrating on the sheriff and his draw. His Colt freed leather and blasted in a flash, the thunder slapping through the room and sending the watching men diving for cover.