by Brett Waring
The sheriff grabbed his gun and hurried through the parlor, carrying a lamp. He cocked the gun as he stopped at the door which was trembling under another violent knocking.
“Who is it?” he demanded, setting the lamp down on a table.
“Del Murray. Houseman at the saloon!” the voice called through the woodwork. “You better hurry, Sheriff! Someone’s tryin’ to bust that feller Dundee out of your jail!”
Burns swore and unlatched the door. Looked like the alarm was raised. He turned to glance back up the stairs at a sudden sound. He saw Ellen, holding a table lamp, a wrap pulled over her nightgown. Before he could speak, Del Murray pushed in through the doorway.
“C’mon, Sheriff! There’s a whole bunch of ’em and they’re smashin’ in the jailhouse doors! I heard ’em when I was goin’ home after a late poker game and went over to look. Horses at your back gate with a Mexican guardin’ ’em. I grabbed the saloon swamper and the barkeep as they were passin’. They’re keepin’ an eye on things.”
Burns glanced at the tense, white-faced girl. “Someone trying to break the prisoner out,” he said, deadpan. “Del spotted ’em. I’d better go.”
He played for time by going back to the den for his gun-rig and getting his rifle from the rack. He pretended he couldn’t find spare ammunition and Del Murray was getting impatient, beginning to hop from one foot to the other.
“You’d better hurry, Brad!” Ellen called, realizing it was dangerous for Burns to delay any longer.
Burns got the message and came running out. He waved briefly and ran out the door into the night. Ellen, biting her lower lip worriedly, closed the door after him, hoping that the outlaws would have quit town before Burns and Murray got there.
She was only halfway back up the stairs to her room when she heard the crash of gunfire from the town.
Part way down the hill to Main Street, Brad Burns cursed when he heard the guns shooting down there. He saw the ragged flashes in the dark around the law office area and he guessed the barkeep and swamper had opened fire on the outlaws. The devil! Of all the times for the townsmen to want to pitch in and help their sheriff!
There was a thunder of hoofs and he saw dark riders racing out of the alley between the law office and the blacksmith’s. Guns roared and he heard someone cry out in pain.
“They got Ollie!” yelled Del Murray, and his own gun hammered in a series of wild shots.
The riders fired in return and Burns threw himself flat, getting off two shots with the rifle, aiming high. Del Murray swore, staggered upright and ran down after the outlaws. One of the big-hatted Mexicans turned in the saddle and a rifle whiplashed. Del Murray stopped running in mid-stride, spun about with a kind of surprised grunt and pitched forward onto his face, rolling down the hill, limbs flailing.
Several unevenly spaced shots cracked from outside the jailhouse and then the thunder of hoofs faded into the night. Burns stopped running and sent four rifle shots after them, knowing he was unlikely to hit Clay Nash now. Then he knelt beside Murray as the other two saloon men came up, one man limping and holding a bleeding hip.
“Murray’s dead,” Burns told them, grim-faced, straightening.
“Damn lucky we ain’t, too!” snapped the wounded barkeep. “Length of time it took you to show, Sheriff!”
“Yeah, you didn’t exactly put up a great show, mister!” growled the other man.
Burns’ jaw muscles knotted and his hands tightened around the rifle he held. Goddamn Clay Nash! Now the town would be against him, or at any rate not with him! All because he had to give Nash a chance to get away with the outlaws. Well, it was just something else that the Wells Fargo man would have to answer for some time!
~*~
It was still dark when they reached the outlaw hideout, though Nash figured sunup couldn’t be far off. And when the light washed over his features, Zack Forrester would know he was not Matt Dundee. After that ...
“We use the big adobe shack for our main meetin’ place,” Forrester said as they rode into the yard, the long, low building pale in the darkness. “There’s a Mex village not far back in the hills where we can pick up extra men if we need ’em. And the border’s less than five miles due south if we have to kinda quit in a hurry. But I wouldn’t want that. Ain’t an easy place to cross, just there.”
“Figures,” Nash said. He had been speaking as little as possible on the ride out from Ojo Medina, not sure if Forrester would remember Dundee’s voice and also wanting to think so he could come up with some fast-talking when Zack Forrester realized he wasn’t Matt Dundee. That was if the outlaw chief gave him time to say anything ...
He was about to find out, for Lester had gone on ahead into the shack and a vesta scraped into flame. A moment later, the steadily growing glow from an oil lamp filled the room.
“Go on in, Matt,” Forrester said. “I’ll just pay off these two Mexes and be right with you.”
Nash nodded and hung back, but Magee was right behind him, cannoned into him and steadied him with an arm. Then the young outlaw urged Nash on ahead and he had no choice but to go on into the lighted room. He looked around swiftly, taking in the room, the two arched doorways leading off it, the single window, shuttered. The place was a clutter of rubbish and old clothes, busted chairs and bits of harness, even a part-empty grain sack that had been liberally gnawed by rats on one corner. There were no rifles or swords or other weapons on the walls that he might be able to grab and use.
He was aware of Lester and Magee staring at him, none too friendly, but he figured they were seeing him as the man who had killed their pard, Chuka Cox. Not that men of their caliber formed lasting friendships, but they would naturally resent him, for they had had to risk their necks to bust him out of the cells. It was too bad those townsmen had tried to head them off, and Nash hoped no one had been killed.
Forrester came in from the yard and closed the door behind him.
“Well, Matt, old pard, let’s take a look at you and see how much you’ve changed in the years since we shared that bug-ridden cell in Yuma.”
Nash knew there was no use trying to delay things any longer. With a determined sigh, he thumbed back his hat and turned slowly to face Forrester, the lamplight washing fully over his rugged features.
The outlaw chief stiffened and his eyes slitted. An instant later, his Colt leapt into his hand and the hammer was back at full cock as the short barrel covered Nash. Surprised, but reacting fast, Magee and Lester stepped aside, their own guns whipping out, covering Nash.
“What is it, Zack?” Lester asked without taking his eyes off Nash.
Forrester’s dark eyes bored into Nash as the man took three steps forward and peered closely into Nash’s face.
“You ain’t Matt Dundee!” the outlaw breathed.
“You’re loco! ’Course I’m Dundee!” Nash said, figuring he had better deny it at first and not come up with anything too pat. But he staggered back as the side of the gun-barrel crashed against his cheek, the foresight ripping the flesh. He put up a hand and felt the blood trickling through his fingers.
“Who the hell are you?” gritted Forrester.
Nash straightened slowly, looking at the blood on his fingers. He glared at the outlaw. “Name’s Clay. Benedict Clay. I busted out of San Angelo with Matt Dundee, but the Rangers got him up near Pecos. He fell over a cliff, landed on his head among some rocks, so you couldn't tell who it was. I planted some of my stuff on him so the Rangers’d figure it was me they got and then they’d stop lookin’ for me …”
“Why take Dundee’s name? They’d still be looking for him, wouldn’t they? Or would be if they figured his body was you?” asked Forrester tightly.
Nash shifted his feet uneasily. “Well, Matt’d been talkin’ about making for the border for a long time. He was hopin’ to meet up with you. Word in San Angelo was that you and your brother Lem were behind the big train robberies that are drivin’ Wells Fargo out of their minds. Matt figured you’d be able to use him. So I re
ckoned if I took his name and you heard that ‘Matt Dundee’ was in the area, you’d make contact. Be a lot easier than for me to try and convince you I was Dundee’s cell-mate.”
Forrester thought about it some and looked at the others. They kept their faces blank, leaving it up to him.
“Well, I guess that part worked, but you got some other things to explain,” the outlaw boss said. “There’s Chuka Cox ...”
“Hell, that was just one of those things,” Nash said. “We both happened to be near the same stretch of river and I smelled bacon cookin’. I was hungry, I’d been on the run for a couple of weeks and hadn’t eaten much. So I crept up on his camp and he spotted me, went right for his gun. We had a shoot-out and I nailed him.”
“Then you toted him into Medina to the law office,” Forrester said grimly.
Nash gently pulled at the lobe of one ear. “Well, not exactly. I was totin’ the body away from the river ford, figuring someone might find it if it was a crossing that was used frequently. Bunch of cowpokes spotted me and I said I was an undercover Ranger, and Cox was an outlaw I’d just smoked down. They said they were ridin’ into Ojo Medina and would keep me company. I couldn’t do nothin’ else but ride along.”
“We heard you rode in alone, totin’ Chuka,” growled Clem Lester.
Nash shook his head slowly. “Nope. That’s trail gossip. I had six hard hombres with me. And I didn’t jump that sheriff soon as I saw him, either, like I heard someone in town claim I did. He recognized me as a wanted man and I was trying to get away when he took a flying dive and knocked me off my horse. We had a brawl right there in the street but he was too good for me and locked me up. He figured I was Benedict Clay but I kept sayin’ I was Matt Dundee, hopin’ word would somehow reach you that I was locked up. And, thank God, it did.”
Nash was hoping that Forrester hadn’t seen a Wanted dodger; he hoped none of the others had, either. If they saw his likeness on the dodger with Matt Dundee’s name under it, they would smell something fishy. But if they hadn’t seen one of the dodgers, he might just get away with it.
“What d’you fellers think?” Forrester asked Lester and Magee without taking his cold gaze off Nash. “Reckon he’s speakin’ gospel?”
“Well, I dunno, but I reckon there was more than Matt Dundee broke out when he blew up that powder magazine at San Angelo,” Lester said slowly. “But whether Clay here was a cell-mate of Matt’s or not, I dunno, Zack. Might be best if we shoot him right now and play it safe.”
“Been figurin’ the same thing,” Forrester admitted quietly and Nash stiffened but kept his face blank. “Link? What you reckon?”
“Story could be true, Zack, but I guess we oughta play it safe and kill him,” Magee said.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Hold it!” Nash snapped as Forrester raised his Colt. “For Pete’s sake, hold up a minute, will you? What I told you is gospel, mostly, anyways. Thing is, I shared a cell with Dundee, I knew he was trying to join up with you fellers, and I can handle dynamite almost as well as he could.” That made them look more closely at him.
“That’s some claim, mister,” Forrester gritted.
“It’s true,” Nash said. “Matt taught me. I helped him blow up that powder magazine. Now, that Mex gal said you need a powder monkey for a job that’s comin’ up right soon. Well, I’m your man. If you just hold that trigger finger of yours, Forrester!”
The outlaw stared hard at Nash for a long minute, then slowly lowered the hammer on the Colt though he did not move the gun’s muzzle from covering Nash.
“We surely do need a powder monkey, mister. What did you say your name was? Clay? ... But you’ll have to prove you know what you’re about before I’m convinced. You show me you can handle dynamite and you’re in with us. If you can just fix a fuse and make a big bang you’re no good to us and we’ll put a bullet through your head. Savvy?”
Nash nodded, letting out his breath slowly.
“Right. Soon as it’s daylight, we move up into the hills a ways and you can show us what you can do.” Forrester’s voice hardened. “And you only get the one chance.”
Clay Nash swallowed as Magee shoved a straight-back chair against his legs and he sat down with a thud.
~*~
They gave Nash only a single stick of dynamite, Forrester saying that they could not afford to use any more from their meager supply. But, even if they had had cases to spare, Nash figured he would still have been given only the one stick. They wanted to see what he could do. As Zack had said, if he could merely blow a hole in the ground, he wasn’t much use to them, for even the Mexicans from the village in the hills could do that much. But, if Nash could show them that he knew how to handle explosives and get maximum force from what he had to work with, and, what was more important, could direct that force where he wanted it to go, then he could maybe fill the gap left by Chuka Cox’s death.
If not, then it would be a quick bullet in the back of the head.
Forrester and the others took him into the hills, leading him on roundabout trails that he knew were meant to confuse him. So Nash noted landmarks without seeming to take much notice of the terrain. He was surprised to find the trail brought them out to a gulch where there were signs of mining having been carried out in the past. But there was a huge, oaken door on thick iron hinges across the mouth of the tunnel now and the words: DANGER—MINE CLOSED BECAUSE OF CAVE-IN painted in red on the woodwork.
There was a small shed to one side that was obviously still in use from time to time. He could see a forge in there and what looked like an iron pot on a chain slung from a pulley block dangling from a heavy beam. He looked swiftly at the floor and saw an iron-and-wood framework spread out under the pot with wet sand tamped tightly within the frame. Irregular holes had been scooped out in the sand in a dozen places or more, ranging in size from a fingertip to an apple.
It wasn’t until the sun caught a flash of bright yellow from some metallic dribble on the lip of the iron pot that he realized what he was seeing.
No wonder they didn’t want him to know about this place and they sure wouldn’t let him live if he failed their test. There might have been a slim chance before, but not now that he had seen the set-up in that shed. For he knew now how they got rid of the gold bullion and why it seemed never to appear on the market either north or south of the Rio.
Forrester shoved his shoulder roughly and pointed to the heavy door across the mineshaft. “See that door? It’s locked tight and has three-foot iron spikes driven through the frame into the rock around the tunnel mouth. It’s maybe six inches thick and those hinges weigh about twenty pounds apiece. Ain’t nothin’ much on the other side of that door that we’re interested in, but I want you to blow it down.’’
“With one stick of dynamite?’’ Nash asked, shaking his head slowly. “One case I might do it.’’
“You’ll do it with one stick if you want to go on breathin’,” Forrester growled. “Chuka Cox reckoned it could be done. And you’ll need at least as much know how as he had to come in with us, Clay.’’
Nash frowned and sat down on a rock, reaching for tobacco and papers. The three outlaws moved away to the shade of the shed, watching as he smoked thoughtfully, looking at the door. After a spell, he stood up, walked right up to the door and gave it a thorough inspection that took all of fifteen minutes. Then he walked back to where Forrester and the others waited.
“Okay, give me the dynamite,” he said, holding out his hand.
Forrester shook his head. “Not until you’re ready to go.”
Nash sighed as he looked into Forrester’s cold face. He shrugged. “Got any tools in that shed?”
He started to go inside as he spoke but Lester was on his feet in an instant, his Colt out and the barrel rammed against Nash’s belly. The Wells Fargo man stopped dead in his tracks and half-raised his hands.
“We’ll get what you need,” Lester told him quietly.
Nash held his gaze a moment longer then
shrugged. “Okay. Sledge and rock drill or a decent crowbar, and a spade.”
‘‘Right. Link? Will you get them tools?”
Magee went into the shed and brought out the tools that Nash wanted. The Wells Fargo agent took them, went back to the door across the mine tunnel mouth and began to drive an angling hole in the rock step under the base of the door. He made the hole a few inches closer to the hinge end of the door and slanted it down under the heel of the frame. He used the spade to pile up dirt along the bottom of the door except around the narrow hole. He tamped it down tightly, used the sledge to smash up some nearby rocks into pieces about the size of a man’s head and piled them on top of the tamped earth. He examined the hole again, drove it about six inches deeper and then told Forrester he was ready for the stick of dynamite.
They kept him covered from a distance of maybe five yards, behind some rocks, while he fitted the detonator cap and fuse. He paid out the fuse cord to the rocks where the outlaws sheltered and held a vesta against the end. He struck another vesta, dipped the fuse and the second vesta head into the flame and it suddenly flared and the fuse was burning. He walked slowly behind the rocks and hunkered down with the outlaws.
‘‘About on the count of twenty-two,” he said, ticking off the seconds on his fingers. When he reached twenty-two, he ducked lower and at that precise moment there was the explosion, a flash of orange-streaked flame belching out of clouds of smoke and dirt and bits of rock and other debris pattered down around their shelter. The blast waves hammered at their ears, set their heads to ringing. There was a rumbling from deep back in the mine as the concussion caused a rockfall.
Then Forrester and the other outlaws stood up slowly while Nash had already started around the rocks, a lot more tense than he outwardly appeared. Smoke and dust clouds billowed around the mineshaft entrance, gradually clearing. Through the haze he could see the door taking shape gradually and his heart came up into his throat: it was still standing in place though some of the heavy planks had been splintered by the force of the blast.
