by Brett Waring
There had been a posse of sorts come after him but he had only glimpsed them from afar and had easily lost them in the Sierras. Long ago he had learned to cover his tracks as well as any Indian. He figured it was time to rest up a little before heading into the border town. He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, arriving on a lathered horse for which he couldn’t produce a bill of sale. He wanted time to look around.
He came to a stream amongst a stand of thick timber and allowed the bay to drink. He figured he would make a noon camp here, allowing the bay to rest up, then ride into Ojo Medina around sundown, a good time to arrive and in keeping with his cover of a man on the run.
Nash allowed the horse to drink its fill, walked it out belly-deep so it could feel the coolness of the water, and then turned it back towards a flat rock where he planned to build his campfire and brew coffee while he cooked the bacon and beans which he had bought at a Mexican store along the way.
But he never did reach that flat rock. A shot blasted from upstream where there was another ford. The bullet went close and Nash threw himself sideways out of the saddle, dragging the rifle from its scabbard as he went. The bay lurched and jumped forward and Nash hit the water with a fan of spray. As his boots scrabbled on the slippery bottom for purchase, two more bullets zipped into the creek at his side. He held the rifle out of the water, triggered one-handed and heard the lead ricochet from a rock but he had no idea where.
He lunged for the bank on the opposite side to the flat rock and water spurted in a rough triangle in front of him as the drygulcher opened up in a fast volley. Nash moved to the left, then the right in a zigzag that was slowed down by the knee-deep water. He stopped dead to further throw off the marksman, got off two fast shots at a vague pall of gunsmoke hanging above the rocks upstream, moved back two feet then hurled himself headlong for the bank. He heard the rifle hammering from upstream but didn’t see or hear where the lead landed.
Nash grabbed at the short grass on the bank and hauled his body up out of the water, rolling fast, away from the creek. Dirt filled his mouth as a bullet landed only a scant inch from his face and he jerked back instinctively. Hell! The bushwhacker had his range! Clay Nash doubled his legs, somersaulted backwards as the rifle blasted again, and landed on his feet, rising and lunging for the thick brush a few yards away.
There were no more shots before he made the shelter and he figured the rifleman was reloading. But he had no sooner hunkered down in the brush than four fast shots raked his cover and he winced as broken twigs stung his cheek. From here he could see the rocks upstream and this time he was able to pinpoint the bushwhacker’s position by the spurting powdersmoke as the man fired a volley. Nash stayed on one knee, steeled himself to ignore the lead crashing through the brush all around him, and sighted on that smoke, moved his point of aim back a shade and up a little, between two rounded boulders where he figured the killer must be lurking.
Nash squeezed trigger carefully and, almost before he saw the gray streak laid by his lead on the inner face of the boulder, had another shell levered into the chamber. He fired again, levering even as he watched his lead zing and ricochet from boulder-face to boulder-face with a mad buzz that reached him like a demented swarm of bees. The rifle barrel back there jerked up into the air and was withdrawn hurriedly. He sent a third shot into the same break in the rocks, listened to the ricochet, then got his legs pumping, running out of the brush cover but keeping it between himself and the killer’s rocks.
He knew those bullets of his must have been close to the drygulcher, close enough to force him to hunt fresh cover. And that was what Nash wanted.
He ran, crouched, along the leaf-strewn path through the brush, not caring how much noise he made, for he knew the killer would be clambering over the rocks and making enough noise of his own to drown out his racing footsteps. He pounded around a hackberry, leapt over a deadfall, used the rifle butt to smash aside a low branch and then burst out onto the bank directly opposite the boulders at the ford There was a man over there all right, his left arm hanging limply as he clambered down the boulders and stumbled across river stones as he made for new cover, rifle in his right hand. He almost fell and, as he straightened, he turned his head slightly and saw Nash.
The killer threw himself flat on his back, bringing his rifle around one-handed, firing wildly. It was a fast, instinctive movement and the shot was a lucky one: it slapped the brim of Nash’s hat and threw his aim out so that his bullet merely struck sparks off river stones between the killer’s feet, ricocheting away. Nash was thrown off-balance and by the time he had regained his footing and got the rifle up to his shoulder again, the man over there had stood up, braced the butt of the rifle into his hip, and levered and triggered a fusillade of wild shots that had bullets whining and zipping and buzzing all around Nash, forcing him to throw himself flat.
The drygulcher dropped the rifle and snatched at his six-gun as Nash rolled off the low bank into the shallows, and the Colt and Winchester boomed as one. Nash was momentarily blinded by the lead-sprayed water in his face. He savagely screwed knuckles against his eyes, saw the man over there was hanging against a rock, his wounded arm trying to support his weight as he sagged slowly, leaving a smear of red down the gray stone. But he was game and he tried to bring up his six-gun for a final shot.
Nash levered, aimed carefully, and shot him through the head. The man jerked and slumped in an untidy heap.
Clay Nash stood up and waded across the river ford, dripping, hatless, rifle with a chamber round cocked and ready. He wasn’t taking any chances at all and when he reached the dead man he took time to kick the Colt from nerveless fingers before using a boot toe to heave the man over onto his back. He stared down at the sightless eyes and tried to make out the features under the blood and grit smearing them.
“Well, I’ll be ...!’’ he exclaimed quietly. “Chuka Cox!”
To be sure, he knelt and went through the killer’s clothes and found enough evidence to confirm the identification. Two old letters, a bill of sale for dynamite caps, a knife with the initials C.C. burned into the handle. Nash hunkered down on his haunches looking at the man.
“Must’ve been on the trail into Ojo Medina when he spotted me,” he mused. And they had known each other from way back ...
Cox had long been on the Wells Fargo ‘wanted’ list and now Nash figured that maybe he was in the right area for the train robbers if Cox was around these parts. He was an explosives’ expert, a man who knew more about dynamite than any living man. If anyone could place those charges precisely under the express cars, it was Cox, the expert. Chief of Detectives Jim Hume would breathe a sigh of relief to know he had been nailed at last.
Another thought struck him. If Cox was part of the Forrester gang, now that he was dead, they would be short of an explosives’ expert. And a, man with the reputation of Matt Dundee would be welcomed with open arms.
The thing was to spread the word around that Cox was out of circulation for good. That ought to be easy enough. He could tote the body into Ojo Medina, still using his cover identity of Matt Dundee, and dump it on the steps of the law offices. Sheriff Bray would have plenty of Wanted dodgers on Cox, he figured. It wouldn’t much matter if he was seen leaving the dead man or not, though it would be better if he could just dump it anonymously. But, if someone saw him, even Bray himself, he would simply tell the truth that Cox had tried to bushwhack him but he had nailed the outlaw first.
If the Forresters were around and interested, he would soon know about it. Explosives’ experts weren’t easy to come by. There were plenty of men who could shove a stick of dynamite into a hole and blow a crater in the ground, or even derail a locomotive, but it was the man who really knew what he was about who was in demand.
And he figured Matt Dundee must fall into that category, for he was one of the elite.
~*~
Brad Burns patrolled the streets just before sundown with one hand on his gun butt. He wasn’t taking any
chances. Someone had told him that Zack and Lem Forrester were as close as twins could be and that Zack, if he were still alive, would come back and square things with Burns for having killed his brother.
No use being a dead hero, Brad figured. He’d take no chances.
He ambled back down Main Street towards the law office where he hadn’t yet lit the porch lantern but figured to do so before going back up the hill to Ellen Bray’s house. He would leave a note on the door where he could be found should he be wanted in his official capacity. Burns still found it strange to be wearing a badge. He hadn’t had much respect for the law or its enforcers after being wrongfully imprisoned, and he had taken hard beatings in jail when that chief warden was wrongly convinced he had a heap of loot stashed away someplace. As far as Brad was concerned, his opinion of the law dropped to zero after that, and he included Clay Nash in his criticism, in spite of the Wells Fargo agent’s efforts to undo the wrong that had been done to Brad. His obsession about Clay Nash was as strong now as it had ever been.
One day they would meet again, he told himself, and it would be settled, one way or another. That was why he had kept up his practice with his gun, a skill which must help him now that he had taken the lawman’s badge. He knew from his association with the trail hands under Longhorn Tommy Loveless that someone would have to try out the new sheriff, see if he was as good as folk said he was. And he would have to be better or he would have one hell of a hard job enforcing the law in this town.
He was feeling for a vesta in his shirt pocket when he stiffened, looking out into the shadowed street. A rider had come around the corner, a man forking a big bay and leading another horse with what looked like a dead man roped across the saddle. A small bunch of townspeople straggled after him to see what had happened.
Clay Nash silently cussed the mob jogging along behind, throwing questions at him, but he didn’t answer. He had hoped to slip into town and dump Cox’s body on the porch of the law office and then go back into town without being seen. But two men repairing a horse trough had spotted him and yelled out and that was it. People on the boardwalks had come running and it was too late then to dodge back. He had to ride along Main and every step of the way he was hoping the sheriff would not be in the office.
When he had first come around the corner and seen the law building in darkness he had figured his luck wasn’t so bad after all, but then he spotted the tall man in the shadows of the porch, fumbling for a vesta to light the lantern, and he swore softly. He had not heard about Sheriff Luke Bray’s death, of course, and was expecting to see a middle-aged man reflected in the flare of the vesta as it burst into flame and the lawman reached out to touch it to the lantern wick.
Nash reined in abruptly, freezing, belly knotting up as the amber light washed over the hawk-like features of the new sheriff, glinting from the long yellow hair showing under the man’s pushed-back hat.
“Great Godfrey!” he murmured to himself.
That was a face he would never forget: the face of the last man he wanted to see at this moment. Brad Burns! His old enemy, the unforgiving young man who had saved him from a terrible death at the hands of two outlaws only so he could have the pleasure of killing Nash himself at some future time.
And the way the young lawman was standing, stiff with tension, right hand hovering over his gun-butt as he stared in disbelief, recognizing Nash, he figured it possible that time was now!
The whole deal would be shot to pieces, Nash thought, his brain racing as he nudged the bay slowly forward again. If Burns called out his name, it would blow his entire plan to hell! Even if he got a chance to explain afterwards it would be too late once Burns had mentioned his real name. The ‘Matt Dundee’ cover would be useless.
Well, the obvious thing to do was to shut up Brad Burns pronto before he could shout Nash’s name. There were two ways he could do it, and one of them was with a gun, though he wasn’t any too sure that he could beat Burns to the draw, after seeing him outgun those two outlaws, months ago.
There was another way: jump Burns right now and get into a knock-down, drag-out brawl with him, making it look really good but allowing the man to win, get the drop on him and then throw him in the cells. Then, in the privacy of the jail, he could tell Burns the truth, ask him to cooperate and not blow his cover ...
His conscience wouldn’t allow him to gun down Burns, even if he could. He had done the man wrong, caused him a lot of grief and the man had saved his life, even if reluctantly. So it had to be the second way and it had to be mighty fast for he could see Burns stepping forward, a bitter smile twisting his lips.
Chapter Four
Prisoner
Nash let out a yell as he dropped the rope of Cox’s horse and jumped the big bay gelding up onto the law office porch, startling Burns. The sheriff tried to dodge but Nash’s boot kicked free of the stirrup and caught him a solid blow on the shoulder. He spun back into the porch railing, arched over, and landed in a heap in the street.
Clay Nash quit saddle with a leap, leaving the bay on the porch as he landed on the rail, balanced briefly and then launched himself headlong as Burns started to get to his feet. He threw his arms wide and wrapped them around the lawman, butting him with the top of his head. They crashed over backwards into the street, dust rising as the crowds gathered and began yelling. They rolled over and over, both men striking with fists and knees and boots. Both men scrambled to get a foothold so they could get on their feet but each grabbed and sledged at the other so that neither managed to make it more than halfway erect before both fell down again, grappling and fighting.
Finally, Nash lifted his feet as Burns hurled himself bodily at him. His boots caught the sheriff in the chest and Nash straightened his legs like a spring, hurling the lawman back ten feet. While Burns fought for balance and to keep himself from going all the way down, Nash lurched upright and ran forward, fists clenched down at his sides. He knew he had to make this look good: if he gave up too soon, Burns would be suspicious, for he knew Nash’s reputation as one mighty tough rooster and he would be expecting a good run for his money. He might win, but he wouldn’t be expecting the victory without some hurt.
Burns was no slouch himself when it came to a rough and tumble. He had had to learn to fight when he had come West and he had had a good teacher. No one had wasted time showing him the finer points of street fighting. There were no Marquis of Queensberry rules on the frontier. Caught up in a sheepherder-cattleman war in Montana, and working for a sheepman, Brad Burns had had to learn how to handle himself fast. He had been a good pupil and now he met Nash’s charge with confidence backed by savagery and the long months of hatred he had nurtured for the Wells Fargo man since being wrongfully imprisoned ...
Nash’s first blows were blocked by iron-hard forearms and then Burns ducked, turned a shoulder and drove forward and up with his legs. His shoulder caught Nash just above the belt buckle and the upward driving force lifted his boots clear off the ground, carrying him backwards. By the time he dropped to the street again and fought for balance, Burns had straightened and was hammering a barrage of blows into his body that kept driving him backwards, just short of the point of balance and solid footing. The dirt was loose under his boots so he could not dig in his heels for purchase. Burns abruptly shifted his attack to Nash’s face and the Wells Fargo man’s head snapped back and he tasted blood as his lips mashed against his teeth. His eyes watered and blood spurted from his nostrils. Knuckles opened a split on his cheek and ground into his left eye.
Half-blinded, gasping for breath, dodging frantically and getting his guard up a shade late, Nash took two more blows that landed either side of his head and then he went stumbling and staggering to one side. Burns went after him and Nash dropped abruptly to one knee. Burns couldn’t stop his forward rush and the Wells Fargo man hooked him in the belly, well below the belt, bringing the lawman up short. Gagging, Burns’ legs buckled and Nash hooked him again as he lunged to his feet. The sheriff tried to turn and me
et the attack but he was still off-balance and half-doubled over when a barrage of solid, flesh-bruising blows rocked his head and upper body. He started to go down, instinctively put out a hand to keep from going all the way down, and Nash swept his left leg around, kicking the support away. Burns thudded onto his side in the dust and Nash leapt in, drove his boot into the man’s belly and saw the sheriff jack-knife, knees coming up under his chin as he gagged for breath. The Wells Fargo man instinctively stepped in to kick Burns again when he abruptly realized that he had Burns now, had him cold. He could finish the man with a boot to the head or face and he would have won the fight.
But that wasn’t what he wanted. The crowd was yelling, some for Burns, some for the big stranger, caught up in the wild excitement of bloodletting, not bothering about the whys and wherefores, cheering for more blood and action. Nash knew if he hesitated, they would know something was wrong, that he didn’t want to finish it and win ... which he didn’t, but the trouble was how to do it and make it look natural.
All this took only a split-second to flash through his brain and his boot was actually drawn back for the finishing kick so he had no choice but to continue the movement. At the last instant, he shifted his weight so that his boot merely skidded across the top of Burns’ head, disturbing the yellow, sweat-matted hair, and then flew on into space. He let the leg continue its rise and he yelled, hopping wildly on his other foot as the upward swing threw him off-balance. He could have likely remained upright, but it was touch and go at best and he didn’t really try. He let himself go down hard, flat on his back, his head rapping the street.
To the crowd it looked just the way he wanted it to look. He had swung a savage kick, missed, and lost balance.
Now he lay there, dazed and winded, shaking his head, seeing Burns taking advantage of the break and clambering slowly to his feet, urged on by the faction which was rooting for him. The sheriff climbed up slowly, straightening, dragging down an obviously painful breath, and his eyes slitted, bright with hatred that drowned his pain, as he stumbled forward and, just as Nash started to sit up, kicked him in the jaw. Nash crashed over onto his back again, head ringing, jaw feeling as if he had been kicked by a horse. He rolled away as Burns came in after him, managing to get as far as his knees, knowing he had pulled it off only too well: he didn’t have a chance now against Burns.
