Clay Nash 2

by Brett Waring

  He had better luck at the next ranch he stopped at. It was a large holding, going under the brand of Block-T and the owner was a gangling, mournful-faced man by the name of Taylor. The spread was a long way from the Gant place and getting out into really wild, uninhabited country and yet, by taking a rough trail up and over the distant ranges, Taylor told Nash that a man could be in Blackwood in a couple of days.

  Nash dug out his Warrant papers and identity card from the special pocket sewn into the back of his wide trouser-belt. “Wells Fargo, Special Operative,” he said, as he handed them to Taylor.

  Taylor held the cards at arms’ length, squinting, lips moving slowly as he laboriously spelled out the words. He glanced up at Nash sharply. “They ain’t runnin’ a stage line over my property, mister!”

  Nash smiled slowly, shook his head. “Not what I’m here for.” He told Taylor about the stage hold-up, not surprised that word of it hadn’t yet reached this remote area, and when he had finished, he asked about the straw-haired ranny. He felt disappointment when Taylor slowly shook his head.

  “Nope, ain’t had anyone like that workin’ for me.”

  Nash sighed. “Just a chance. Thought I’d ask.”

  “Well, there was a hombre like that stopped by not long back, maybe a week ago, and traded for a new hoss and some grub. Paid for it with a double eagle, matter of fact.” Nash looked at the rancher sharply. “Wearing a silver ring?”

  “Yup.”

  “Long, straw-colored hair? Youngish?”

  “Yup ... both times.”

  “Notice if he walked with a sort of limp or had a lump near the toe of one boot?”

  “Hell almighty, mister! I only spoke with him for five minutes and only time I seen him walk was to take his saddle off the bronc he traded and throw it on his fresh one. He was limpin’, all right, but like a man who’d spent a long time in the saddle, not ’cause he was crippled.”

  “He sounds like my man,” Nash reckoned. “Which way was he headed?”

  Taylor squinted at him for a moment before pointing off in the direction of the distant hills. Nash tensed.

  “Into the hills?”

  Taylor shook his head. “Through ’em. Headin’ for Blackwood, he said.”

  “Blackwood! He wouldn’t go there!”

  “Oh, he’s goin’ to Blackwood all right,” Taylor said with confidence and Nash scowled at him. The lanky rancher added casually, “And he’ll have no trouble findin’ his way, ’cause he rode out with one of my men, the bronc buster. Jughead Jordan. He quit on me, drew his pay, and was cuttin’ out for the bright lights over the hills. Josh went with him.”

  Nash swallowed his impatience.

  “Josh?” he asked mildly.

  The rancher nodded. “That’s what the young hombre called himself. ‘Josh.’ No last name.”

  “Is that all you can recall? I mean, you recollect how tall he was? How big? His face? Any of those things?”

  “Be tall as you. Leaner, though. Kinda thin nose, like a hawk’s beak. Blue eyes, chin had a few days’ beard. Carried one gun.”

  Nash wrote swiftly in a small notebook. “You’re doin’ fine. How about clothes?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Faded shirt, could’ve been any color under the dust on it. Same with his pants, though I’d say they started out as levis. Had rivet heads on the pockets.”

  “You noticed a lot after seeing him for only five minutes,” Nash opined.

  “I’m shortsighted, but I can see long-distance good. I got me my look before he came up past the corrals. After that, he looked kinda fuzzy round the edges.”

  Nash grinned. “Thanks, old-timer. You’ve been a big help.”

  Taylor shrugged, glanced off to the distant hills. “You headed that way?”

  “I am. You’d better tell me what this Jughead Jordan looks like, too. Might be I can find him in town.” Then he added grimly. “If Josh didn’t shoot him along the way for his wages.”

  Taylor frowned, pursing his lips. “C’mon in the cook-shack. Have some java and corn beef hash before you mosey along. I’ll tell you about Jughead Jordan while you eat.”

  Nash nodded his thanks and followed the lanky rancher across the yard towards the clapboard and adobe building where smoke curled out of a battered, leaning chimney poking up through the shingle roof. He could smell strong coffee as he approached the door and his mouth began to water.

  ~*~

  Surprisingly enough, Clay Nash had no trouble finding people in Blackwood who had seen Jughead Jordan. He was well-known in the town as a hell-raiser on his infrequent visits from Taylor’s ranch. Only thing was, everyone the Wells Fargo man spoke to and who had seen the horse-breaker ride in, claimed he was alone.

  Nash went looking for Jughead Jordan, enlisting the aid of Sheriff Carson. It seemed that no one had seen Jordan for some time. After more questioning, they were able to pin down the ‘some time’ to ‘since last night, around midnight.’

  “Likely with one of the gals,” Carson said. “He fancies women.”

  “Got a favorite?” Nash asked.

  “Might call Lena at the Nugget his favorite, I guess. We’ll go see. He’s been known to spend two-three days with the same gal.”

  They had to wake the girl in her dingy room above the saloon’s bar. She was having her afternoon nap before beginning the night’s work, starting around six or six-thirty And she wasn’t happy about being yanked out of bed to face the lawman and the big man whose name she never did get to know, though she sure showed more interest in Nash than in Carson.

  “Jughead?” she repeated, brushing hennaed hair out of her puffy eyes. “Jughead Jordan? Hell, no, I ain’t seen him. And he better not show his ugly face around my room again or I’ll kick his butt clear off that balcony!”

  “What’d he do?” Nash asked, interested.

  Lena ran her gaze up and down Nash’s big form, noting the squared shoulders, slim waist and long legs. Then she stared into his clear gray eyes. “Well, handsome, it was this way. Jughead seemed all set for his usual week or so with me when he got up sudden last night—and I mean sudden! Said something about the train to Knife Edge and hopped out of this room on one leg, pullin’ on his pants. I cussed him out for leavin’ a lady without payin’ her a dime and he hollered that he’d be back, but I ain’t seen him since and I don’t want to! He ran out on me!”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Well, a friend of mine was seein’ off a friend of hers, if you know what I mean, at the railroad depot and she saw Jughead buyin’ a ticket. If that ain’t proof enough he ran out, I dunno what is.”

  Nash and Carson exchanged glances.

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to go to Knife Edge if you want to see Jordan now,” the lawman said to Nash, but the Wells Fargo man turned to the yawning Lena.

  “Your friend see Jordan get on the train?”

  Lena frowned and the lawman looked sharply at Nash.

  “Well, no, she didn’t say. Just saw him buyin’ a ticket. But, hell, a man don’t buy a ticket just to keep in his pocket. He buys it to travel on!”

  “Or for someone else to use,” Nash said and he saw Carson’s eyebrows shoot up sharply.

  He asked, “Well, where’s Jughead now?”

  Nash was already moving to the door. “My guess is where he can’t tell about who he bought that ticket for. C’mon, Sheriff!”

  Nash went out in a hurry and Carson followed. The bewildered girl flounced back on the bed and cussed all men and in particular, Jughead Jordan. She hoped, wherever he was, that he got exactly what he deserved and, if anyone wanted to know what she thought that might be, she would be glad to tell them, in words of one syllable, or less. She guaranteed they would savvy her by the time she was through.

  But, whether he deserved it or not, Jughead Jordan was dead, sprawled on his back, eyes wide, blood dribbling from a corner of his open mouth, a knife wound in his back, lying amongst the litter beside the railroad track just outside o
f the Blackwood depot. He had been found by a depot clerk.

  “You sure got this killer figured, Clay,” Carson said admiringly as they knelt beside the dead bronc buster. Jordan didn’t have a cent left in his pockets.

  “He’s scum,” Nash said tightly as he stood up and thumbed back his hat from his forehead. “He knew it would be risky to show himself at the depot, so he had Jordan buy his ticket. When he came to hand it over, Josh knifed him and cleaned out his pockets to make it look like plain robbery.” He turned and looked along the rail tracks leading out from the town. “But he’s on his way to Knife Edge right now. When’s the next train, Sheriff?”

  The lawman thought for a moment. “Thursday night, eight o'clock.”

  “That’s three days off!”

  Carson nodded. “One of your own stages goes out at ten tonight,” he said, looking at Nash sideways, a strange sort of look that brought a frown to the face of the Wells Fargo man. “Bound for Knife Edge and points west. Might be you could get aboard.”

  “Sounds promising,” Nash said, looking levelly at Carson, but the lawman didn’t explain any further.

  “You get on down to the freight agent,” said the sheriff. “I’ll fix up things here.” He gestured at Jordan’s body.

  Nash hesitated a moment longer then shrugged and moved back towards town, still wondering about that strange look the sheriff had given him.

  The Wells Fargo agency was down a side street off the main drag and Nash could see the stagecoach being readied for the trail in the repair and maintenance shop to one side of the agency office. He didn’t want his identity to be known at present so he simply walked up to the wire-caged counter and told the clerk he would like a ticket on the night stage to Knife Edge. The clerk, a balding man with a green eyeshade and wearing a collarless striped shirt, looked up and Nash could see his mean eyes sparking with the delight of refusal even before he spoke.

  “So would a lot of people, cowboy,” the clerk said in a snooty manner. He returned to filling out his forms and added, curtly: “We’re full up.”

  “That so? When’s the next stage then?”

  “Next week.”

  Nash cursed silently and the clerk gave a smile of twisted pleasure at having thwarted yet another citizen in his desires. He figured it as part of his compensation for being required to work long hours.

  “Nothing earlier?” Nash persisted. “A freight wagon or somethin’?”

  The clerk looked up in exasperation, his mouth tight. “I’ve given you all the information I can, cowboy. Write to head office in ’Frisco if you want a full timetable for every blamed town in the West! Now move along. I’m busy.”

  Nash leaned an elbow on the cage’s shelf under the ticket window, thumbed back his hat again. He reached through and gently took the pencil from the clerk’s surprised grasp. The man looked indignant and opened his mouth to protest.

  Nash snatched the pencil back out of reach and looked steadily into the man’s angry eyes. “S’posin’ I said to you that I just had to be on that stage tonight. Had to. You figure we could come to some arrangement, maybe?”

  “Give me my pencil and we’ll talk about it!” snapped the clerk. “That’s company property.”

  “Fine,” Nash said and put the pencil in his shirt pocket. The clerk gaped. “Now, how about an arrangement?”

  The clerk figured maybe this hombre was as tough as he looked and in no mood for joshing. He decided to play it safe and ran a finger around the inside of his neckband. “Well, it might be possible. I—er—could have forgotten a previous reservation, I guess. But one of the passengers already booked would have to be put off and, of course, there would be a—er—an extra fee for reservation ...”

  Nash nodded slowly. “I figured that might be the way of it.”

  He moved across the room to the door leading into the office and the clerk jumped to his feet as Nash strolled towards him on his side of the counter. “Now, wait a minute, cowboy! You can’t ...”

  “The hell I can’t,” Nash said, stopping in front of the clerk’s desk and flinging his Identity and Warrant cards down on top of the clerk’s papers. “Read those, mister.” The clerk picked up the cards with trembling hands and read swiftly. He looked about to faint. “You—you’re going to report me?” he managed to get out.

  “I ought to kick you out onto the street!” snapped Nash. “You’re one hell of an advertisement for the company! Folk judge the whole damn company by the gents like you in the ticket office. And you don’t have the manners or courtesy of a louse. And you’re corrupt! Shakin’ down the passengers for extra fares! There’ve been complaints about overcharging from this station before.”

  “Please, Mr. Nash. Don’t put me on report! I’ve got a wife and two children ... !”

  “Maybe they love you, but the folk you deal with through that cage sure don’t. Now, you straighten up, mister, or you’re out of a job.”

  The sweating clerk nodded vigorously, hands shaking so much he could hardly hold the bandanna he pulled from his pocket to mop his face. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Nash. It won’t happen again.”

  “Better not,” Nash said curtly. “Now ... I’ve still got to get a seat on that stage tonight. Is there someone you can offload who won’t be too inconvenienced?”

  “I—I’ll get the list.” The sweating clerk rummaged amongst his papers and came up with a list of names fixed to a piece of board. He found another pencil and went down the list slowly, muttering to himself as he stopped by each name. He smiled when he looked up. “Why, yes, there’s someone here. A widow woman, just a social visit with her brother in Knife Edge, she said, a couple of weeks’ vacation. I guess it won’t bother her too much.”

  “Hard to say,” Nash replied. “Likely that holiday’s as important to her as my business is to me. But someone’s got to go, I guess. Unless I could ride up beside the driver.” The man looked uncomfortable as he shook his head and smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Shotgun guard’s ridin’ along.”

  Nash stiffened. “You carrying express goods?”

  The clerk licked his lips and looked around before nodding. He spoke in a low voice. “Truth is, we’ve got a chestful of gold bolted to the floor. Train was s’posed to be carryin’ it but it was a dummy they took. We had a tip-off there was gonna be an attempt to derail and rob the train.”

  Nash nodded slowly, understanding now why the sheriff had given him that strange look. The lawman must have known about the switch but hadn’t been sure if Nash did. So he had played it safe and said nothing.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s go through this list and make sure the widow woman has to be the one to be offloaded.”

  She was. There was no one else he felt like pushing off the stage in case he incurred the wrath of the head office and something like that coming at the wrong time could hinder his investigations. It was hard luck on the woman, a Mrs. Julie Gant, but that couldn’t be helped.

  “Gant?” he asked, frowning. “Seems I’ve heard or seen that name recently.”

  “Her husband died of fever. Got a small spread way back in the breaks, near Deer Lake.”

  “Hell, yeah! I saw the place. Saw the husband’s grave, too. Well, you arrange for a refund of her money and give her the company’s apology and tell her she can have a cheap-rate fare on the next stage.”

  “I’m not authorized to do that!”

  Nash merely looked at him and the man swallowed and nodded, sighing heavily.

  “I believe she’s staying at the Silver Horseshoe Hotel. I’ll send someone over.”

  “You go, mister.”

  “Yes, of course. I—I’ll arrange for someone to relieve me.”

  Nash nodded absently, and gestured to a far door. “That lead to your maintenance section?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  Nash headed for the door. “Fine. I want a word with your coach hand. Couple of things I want him to do for me. You’d better let Mrs. Gant know right away.”

  “I’ll
attend to it,” the clerk said as Nash opened the door and went through into the workshop. They were busy readying the Concord coach for the long trail.

  The clerk’s mouth moved in a silent, bitter curse as the door closed behind Nash and then he raised a sharp voice for one of the office juniors to come and relieve him, taking out his frustration and anger on the lad when he didn’t move fast enough.

  Chapter Four – Trail to Knife Edge

  It was dark when Nash figured he had better check at the post office and see if there were any wires waiting for him there. There was an answer to the telegraph he had sent Hume, but it wasn’t helpful. As far as Hume could determine, no one answering the straw-haired bandit’s description had served time in Yuma with Missouri Aimes or Con Stuart. Which still left the puzzle of how the men had met up in the first place and planned the robbery.

  There were not many folk about at that time of night. Blackwood was a town which started early and turned in early. The street was empty, except for two men weaving their way down the street towards him. They had obviously been drinking and supported each other as they stumbled along, singing a nighthawk’s ditty in the most unmusical voices Nash had ever heard. They passed under a lamp on an awning and he saw that they were trail-stained, stubbled, big hombres in worn work clothes. One was a redhead, his hair so bright it was almost orange. The other was a nondescript rangeland type and seemed to have the worst singing voice of the two. They staggered towards him and the Wells Fargo man smiled faintly as he moved to one side to avoid a collision. But they staggered the opposite way and his hands went out to steady the men as they bumped into him, set him off-balance.

  “Easy, fellers!” he said, feeling the iron-hard bulging muscles of their shoulders. “Better set yourselves on a steady course for wherever you’re headed.”

  To his surprise, they straightened, and the redhead slapped his hand irritably off his shoulder.

  “What the hell you tryin’ to do, mister?” the man slurred, squinting at Nash. “He’s tryin’ to lift my dinero out of my shirt pocket, Nate!”