by Brett Waring
“The hell he is!” the other said belligerently. “Red, he’s a thief!”
“Now, wait up!” Nash began and suddenly he knew he had walked into a trap. The men were standing straight now and were no longer swaying unsteadily. Their fists were clenched up and their faces had lost the slack-jawed look of the drunk. He started to brace himself but they had the advantage and moved in swiftly, the nondescript one called Nate stepping to one side and a little behind Nash. A fist crashed into his kidneys and he grunted, stumbled forward into the redhead as the man slammed home two hard punches into Nash’s mid-section.
Clay’s legs sagged and he grabbed out instinctively for support, feeling a shirt and twisting his fingers in it. Knuckles smashed into the side of his head and a knee rammed into his back. The redhead lifted a leg and kicked him in the chest and he went down hard and rolling. His arms came up to cover his head and face as he saw the cowboys moving in fast and he prepared himself for the barrage of kicks he knew would come.
They tried to stomp on his head and he managed to catch one of the striking boots in his hands and heaved, twisting savagely. Nate yelled and hopped on one foot, stumbling into Red, who cursed and shoved him off angrily. Nate fell and Red stumbled over his body as he made to move in. Nash rolled away from the scrimmage, tangled briefly with some crates and garbage, fought his way to his feet as the other two sorted themselves out and began to get up. He drove straight in, using the building wall behind him for impetus, and kicked Nate squarely in the face. The man catapulted backwards and Red leapt to one side to dodge his flailing body. Nash was ready for Red’s maneuver and leapt forward, fists sledging, catching the man on the side of the jaw and in the throat. Red went down to one knee, gagging, one hand at his throat, the other supporting himself. Nash kicked the supporting arm out from under him and Red fell sideways with a crash. He rolled away from Nash’s boots, hit some crates, and grabbed one instantly, heaving it violently at the Wells Fargo man. Nash warded off the crate but by that time. Red was on his feet and Nate rose unsteadily behind him, threw his arms about Nash and pinned his arms to his sides.
Red stepped in fast, big fists hammering, his teeth bared with the effort, eyes glinting with pleasure. Nash rocked with the blows and fought to get his arms free of Nate’s grip. He couldn’t manage it so he lifted both feet off the ground, suddenly throwing his full weight onto Nate. The man wasn’t expecting this and Red instinctively stepped back when he saw Nash’s legs rising, figuring the big agent was going to try to kick him. Nate wasn’t ready to take Nash’s two hundred pounds and they both fell to the ground, Nate only going to one knee and releasing his grip on Nash.
The Wells Fargo man found himself free and with Red standing back, he was able to bounce up to his feet between the two men. They moved in on him from both sides and he flung out his arms abruptly, fists clenched, in sweeping backhand blows with the distance judged just right. He hit both men at the same time, his left fist taking Nate in the nose and crushing it, his right crashing against Red’s hard head. Nash shook his jarred fist, hooked an elbow into Nate’s ribs and put the man down, sobbing, hands covering his bloody face, and then turned to face Red.
The redhead drove in like a locomotive, thick lips pulled back from his teeth, arms wide, fingers clawed, aiming to wrap his arms around Nash and bear him to the ground. Nash back-pedaled fast, jumping the last couple of feet to get beyond the reach of those crushing arms. He stepped swiftly to one side as Red charged on, unable to stop. Nash thrust out his leg and the redhead tripped and crashed headlong, cannoning into Nate just as the man was staggering upright. The force threw Nate back against the wall with a jolt and the breath drove from his lungs as the back of his head rapped the woodwork. His legs buckled and he sat down with a thump. The redhead rolled up against him and immediately began to scramble up again, shaking blood from his eyes. But Nash was merciless now. He used a knee to shove Red back against the clapboard wall and pin him there momentarily while he sledged away a barrage of blows that hammered the man to the ground, bloody and unconscious.
Breathing hard, Nash straightened, shaking his hurting hands and sucking at a split knuckle. He used a kerchief to wipe blood from his face, whirled at a sound behind him, his Colt leaping into his hand with phenomenal speed, the hammer snapping back with a cold, deadly sound. Nate had been getting groggily to his feet and he froze under Nash’s gun barrel, leaning his shoulder against the wall as he lifted his hands out from his sides, breath rattling wetly through his busted nose.
“Don’t shoot, Nash!” he croaked.
Nash walked forward slowly, still holding the cocked gun and rammed the barrel against the terrified Nate’s head. “Why’d you and your pard set about me?”
“We—we was drunk ... Lookin’ for a little excitement,” Nate stammered lamely.
Nash pressed hard with the gun barrel. “You were pretendin’ to be drunk ... You staggered into me deliberately. You picked me out of other people walking on the street. You knew who I was, right?”
Nate shook his head swiftly.
Nash moved the gun barrel and hit him across the ribs with it. “You just said ‘Don’t shoot, Nash!’ ... How’d you know my name?”
Nate opened his mouth to speak and then looked past the Wells Fargo man and Nash whirled at a crashing sound. But it was only Red stumbling away down the street, holding one hand to his smashed face, the other hugging his ribs. He was doubled over and had stumbled into the wall and zigzagged out into the street again. He ignored Nash’s yell to ‘Hold it!’ then the Wells Fargo man whirled and sprinted after Nate who had taken the opportunity to make his dash, too. Nash caught him halfway along the building, slammed him back violently against the clapboards and rammed his gun barrel into his belly. He held the man upright until his breathing had steadied and then grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and jerked his head up, looking coldly down into the terrified face.
“Last time, Nate. Why’d you jump me?”
Nate swallowed and fought for breath and finally said, “It—it was Red’s idea. We ride for the same outfit. He came up to me in the bar and said I could earn a few extra bucks by helpin’ him jump a ranny named Nash. I swear to God that’s all I know.”
“Red pay you?”
Nate hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. Five bucks.”
Nash slammed Nate back against the wall and then swiftly went through the man’s pockets with one hand. He found only thirty cents, flung the coins in Nate’s face. “You’re lying!”
“I—I spent it!”
Nash hit him hard with the gun barrel, held him against the wall and laid the blade foresight against the man’s cheek. “The truth this time or I lay your face open, mister!”
Nate was shaking now. “All right, all right, but Red’ll kill me!”
Nash stared back coldly, waiting, the foresight poised and pressing hard into Nate’s flesh.
“We only got partly paid. After we done the job we was to go to room seventeen at the Silver Horseshoe for the rest. Now, I swear that’s all he told me, Nash! We was to beat you up enough so you’d be laid up for a spell. I dunno why. I swear it’s the truth!”
Nash stared coldly into the man’s terrified eyes for a long spell and Nate repeated over and over that he was telling the truth. Nash believed him and holstered his gun with a deft twirl and then brought up his right fist and drove it hard into Nate’s midriff, just under the arch of his ribs. Nate gagged and Nash stepped back and walked away as the man’s legs folded under him and he spilled forward onto his face in the street.
He turned and walked back towards the main drag, aiming to head for the Silver Horseshoe and find out what in hell was going on. He had only walked half a block before there was a gunshot from the left and lead clipped splinters from the clapboard wall beside his head. Nash dropped to one knee, his Colt leaping into his hand, big body twisting towards the gunshot. A second shot roared and he dropped hammer the instant he saw the muzzle-flash. He didn’t hear where the bullet
went, but leapt up and ran towards the ambusher’s shelter, his gun hammering twice more. A man’s shape reared up against the light from the main drag and he staggered out, clawing at his chest, coughing, his legs folding under him as he spilled into the street and lay still, his smoking pistol close to his hand.
Nash walked up and turned him over with a boot-toe. It was Red. Looked like he didn’t like getting beaten and figured to take his revenge with a bullet.
Windows went up and lamps were lit and a small crowd gathered. The doctor came running. Sheriff Carson, wearing trousers hastily pulled on over his longjohns, thrust through, holding a shotgun. He was surprised to see Clay Nash standing over the dead man.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Him and a pard jumped me. I fought ’em off and he ran away. Like a fool, I didn’t watch the shadows when I was walking along. Guess he figured to finish things with a gun.”
Carson frowned. “You know ’em?”
Nash shook his head. “Just a couple of drunken rannies, I guess.”
Carson nodded. “This one’s a trouble-maker, anyways. Red Kincaid. Had him in and out of the cells a dozen times. First time I’ve known him to use a gun, though.”
The medic who had been examining the dead man straightened abruptly and held something out to the sheriff. “This might explain it.”
Nash and the sheriff looked down at the money the sawbones had given the lawman.
“Must be fifty dollars here,” Carson said, turning to look at Nash. “Looks like someone was willin’ to pay to have you dead, Nash.”
“Yeah,” Nash said slowly, reloading his gun. “Looks that way.”
~*~
Room seventeen was at the far end of a lamp lit passage, towards the rear of the Silver Horseshoe hotel. Clay Nash walked down the hall slowly and carefully, Colt in hand. The way things looked at the moment, whoever was in room seventeen had paid Red to kill him. He wasn’t taking any more chances.
He approached the door silently and when he reached it, stood to one side and rapped briefly on the panel, the Colt cocked and ready in his hand. He pressed his ear against the wall and heard footsteps approaching. Nash tensed as he heard someone fumbling with the latch and then the door started to swing open slowly.
“Who is it?”
Nash froze, shocked. It was a woman’s voice and now the door swung back farther and he was confronted by a tall, brown-haired girl in her mid-twenties, dressed in gingham and wearing a wedding ring on her left hand. She gasped when she saw him and the gun in his hand and put the back of her hand to her mouth.
“What ... what ... d’you want?” she stammered.
Nash saw her knuckles whitening where she held the edge of the door and he stepped forward just as she tried to swing it closed. He jammed his boot down, taking the brunt of the impact there and got his shoulder against the panel, shoving against the door. The girl staggered backwards into the room and Nash stepped inside, kicking the door closed behind him. He glanced around swiftly, grabbed the girl’s arm as she made to lunge away, and then dragged her with him as he looked through the room thoroughly, behind the curtained clothes alcove, under the iron bed, out on the balcony beyond the grimy window. There was no one else around and he heaved the girl bodily across the room and she gave a small cry as she crashed down onto the bed beside two closed carpetbags. Nash started forward, stopped suddenly, frowning. He stared at the bags, then went to the alcove again and looked in. No clothes were hanging on the pegs. The girl watched him all the time but the first fear was fading from her eyes now. He walked back to the bed and she shrank back a little but there was more defiance in her face than fear, as he reached down and looked at the two shipping tags tied to the handles of the carpetbags.
They were of Wells Fargo issue, booked for the ten o’clock stage to Knife Edge, and the name in the ‘Passenger’ space was ‘Mrs. J. Gant.’
Nash stood back, holstering his Colt, looking coldly down at the girl. “You sure must want to get to Knife Edge bad, ma’am.”
“My brother’s ill. I have to get down there to look after him,” she replied curtly.
“That’s not what you told the Wells Fargo clerk. He said you were going on a vacation.”
She smiled coldly. “I don’t have to explain my affairs to ill-mannered booking clerks, Mr. Nash! Nor, for that matter, do I have to explain to you.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am. You’ve got one helluva lot of explainin’ to do to me. I figure I’m entitled to it when you send two men after me to kill me.”
She looked startled, blinking up at him. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about! I never sent ... !”
“Feller named Red Kincaid and his pard Nate someone or other. They jumped me in a side street near the livery, then Red tried to bushwhack me from an alley. We found fifty dollars on him.”
She stood up now, tossing her head defiantly as she smoothed down her dress and walked across to a chair where she sat down and folded her hands firmly in her lap.
“And just where d’you think I would find fifty dollars to give to some down-at-heel cowboy?”
“Well now, I don’t recollect sayin’ Red was a down-at-heel cowpoke or any kind of cowpoke, but you’re right— he was.”
“Was?” she asked, frowning.
“I just had to kill him.”
Her mouth dropped open. Then she regained her composure again. “I heard shooting. But what makes you think I had anything to do with someone trying to kill you?”
“Must be because Nate said he had to collect money from whoever was in this room after I’d been beaten up.”
Her white teeth tugged at her lower lip and she looked thoughtful for a spell, then sighed and nodded slowly. “All right ... I asked Red to find someone to help him beat you up so you wouldn’t be able to take that stage and I’d get my seat back. I paid them twenty dollars. If Red tried to kill you, that was his own idea.”
“Doesn’t explain the extra thirty dollars he had. Nate was only carryin’ thirty cents.”
“I simply can’t explain that, nor do I intend to try. I’ve told you the truth.”
Nash looked at her steadily then sat down on the edge of the bed. “Kind of desperate measures to take, ma’am. You could have come and seen me and told me your problem. Might’ve been able to work somethin’ out.”
“Not according to the clerk,” the girl said, showing some signs of nervousness now. “He said you were unapproachable, a cold-hearted official of Wells Fargo who had to get to Knife Edge on business and so I had to give up my seat on the stage.”
“I still say they were desperate measures, ma’am. Mighty desperate.”
“Perhaps. But my brother means a great deal to me, Mr. Nash. I’ll do anything I can to get to his bedside fast.”
“Well, I’m sorry. It’s too late to make any more changes now. If you’d come to me and explained, there might have been something we could have done. Looks like you’ll have to take a train part way and then maybe hire a horse. I hope you get to your brother in time to be of some help, ma’am, but right now I have to go.” He stood up and stared down at her bleakly. “If you were a man, I’d throw you clear through that window without bothering to open it first. Adios, Mrs. Gant.”
He touched his hat brim briefly and started for the door. She hesitated, then stood up and hurried after him, catching his arm just as he opened the door. She looked into his face, her eyes brimming.
“Mr. Nash ... I—I’m sorry. I—I just didn’t know what to do! I have to be on that stage! There’s no one to take care of him and ...”
She began to sob and ducked her head swiftly, hiding her face, leaning against him, pressing her face against his shirt as sobs shook her. Nash started to put his arms about her in comfort, then stopped, made a couple of indecisive gestures and finally took her shoulders between his big hands and pushed her back from him. He looked down into her tear-stained helpless face and he felt compassion surge through him.
But he resisted it.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, forcing a rough edge to his voice. “Nothin’ I can do at this stage. I’m—sorry.”
He nodded curtly, touched his hat brim again and hurried away down the passage. At the door, Julie Gant dabbed at her eyes with a tiny kerchief and watched his broad shoulders as he headed for the stairs.
“If my brother dies before I get there, it’ll be on your conscience!” she called after him with a break in her voice.
Nash kept walking and Julie Gant’s lips compressed as she slammed the door angrily.
Nash made his way back to the livery, figuring he would just about have time to pick up his saddle and make final arrangements before boarding the stage. It was too bad about Mrs. Gant.
When the stage pulled out of Blackwood, only ten minutes later, Julie Gant watched it go from the balcony of the Silver Horseshoe. Her face was angry as she saw the coach rock on its leather springs around a bend in the street and then start the climb out of town, on the first leg along the trail to Knife Edge.
Even from here, she could see big Clay Nash sitting at the window on the driver’s side. She hoped his wounds gave him hell all the way!
~*~
One reason why it was easier and faster to travel by stage instead of riding horseback was that the stage continued to travel all through the night, with regular stops at relay stations along the way. The miles slid by beneath the wheels while the passengers tried to sleep in the hard, uncomfortable seats, bracing themselves against the swaying and jolting motion of the coach.
Clay Nash braced himself by planting a boot against the green Express chest bolted to the floor, wondering if any of the passengers realized just how much gold was being carried on this journey.
It was a long, uncomfortable night and by morning his jaw was swollen badly so that he had trouble moving his mouth to eat the hardtack and beans that was served for breakfast at the Scalp River relay station. But the hot black coffee felt good and seemed to relax the bruised muscles considerably. His right eye was closed-up some but he could still see, though not as well as usual. The two women passengers tended to shy away from him because of the marks of battle and his trail-stained clothing. He looked like a saddle tramp and did nothing to change that impression. He knew neither the driver nor the shotgun guard on this run and he heard them discussing Roarin’ Dick Magee’s plight. It seemed that, so far, there was little change in the old driver’s condition and Nash felt cold anger knotting up inside him again.
