Clay Nash 7

by Brett Waring

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  When Clay Nash rode into Socorro he found a town in fear. The local lawman had been shot dead and two rival trail crews, each one just about as tough as tacks, were coming in to paint the town red. To make matters worse, a proddy gunfighter named Considine was around, and because he was known to get mean when drunk, he might just be the flame that touched off an already explosive situation

  A wise man would have taken the next stage out of Socorro, but not Clay Nash. Instead, he pinned on the star and told all the troublemakers they had till sundown to leave town.

  Clay felt an obligation to Socorro, see … because he was the one who’d killed their marshal to begin with!

  CONTENTS

  One – The Magdalena Trail

  Two – The Gunslinger

  Three – Law in Socorro

  Four – First Blood

  Five – Debt Paid

  Six – The Burning Fuse

  Seven – The Alternative

  Eight – Sundown

  Nine – The Violent Hours

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Piccadilly Publishing

  One – The Magdalena Trail

  Clay Nash snapped the loading gate closed on the Colt’s cylinder, checked that the hammer would notch back to full cock noiselessly, then holstered the gun, pushing it down hard into the leather. He would be running soon and he didn’t want to lose the weapon.

  Next, he took a handful of cartridges from the cardboard box and began thumbing them through the loading gate of the Winchester rifle. The desert sun caught some engraving in the metal: ‘Presented to Clay Nash by a grateful Wells Fargo Express Co. for duty well done.’ It was one of the ’73 models, not one of the famous ‘one-in-a-thousand’ rifles, but a very accurate and fast-shooting piece, well-tuned by Wells Fargo’s gun experts. The backstrap of his Colt Peacemaker was also engraved as being an award from the company for ‘duty well done’.

  Nash was Chief of Detectives James Hume’s top operative. That was why he had been given the job of tracking down the men he was about to engage in a gunfight. Three of them had been involved in the robbery, and they had picked up two half-breed women somewhere along the way. Nash knew there was no guarantee that the women wouldn’t fight, too. They often did so on behalf of their men-of-the-moment, and some of them could use firearms as well as any outlaw.

  The three men he wanted were brothers—Cal, Howie and Larry Morne. Their descriptions and sketches adorned a dozen ‘Wanted’ dodgers in four states, and some of the crimes they had committed included murder, robbery, rape and rustling. They wouldn’t come easy, which was why Nash wasn’t going to waste his breath by calling on them to throw down their guns. He knew the only way to take them was from behind a smoking gun and that was what he aimed to do. Right now.

  The trail had been long enough; it was time to call a halt.

  They were holed-up in a shack in a remote arroyo outside the small New Mexico town of Quemodo. A Mexican girl, jealous of one of the half-breeds who had gone with the Mornes, had been only too willing to give Nash directions. She hoped he killed them all. Nash hoped so, too, for he didn’t fancy trying to take in one of the Mornes as a prisoner.

  He sighted along the Winchester’s octagonal barrel, laid the silver blade foresight squarely in the center of the buckhorn rear sight, the tip level with the tops of the ‘horns’. The blade almost covered the single window in the shack’s front wall. Inside, he could just make out vague movement as someone moved around the room. He waited until that half-seen shape crossed the window and then squeezed off his first shot. As the echoes of the rifle shot slapped through the arroyo, Nash triggered again, and again, the lever working in a blur, spent cartridge cases flying high from the top ejector slide, glinting in the sunlight. His lead raked the inside of the cabin through the smashed window, and then he moved his fire to the flimsy door. It rattled and shook in its frame as the heavy-caliber lead smacked into it. Chunks of weathered timber flew from the planks. He shot out the wooden latch bar and the door sagged inwards. Someone inside slammed it shut almost immediately and Nash sent his last two shots clear through the woodwork. He saw the door shudder as if a body had collapsed against it from the inside. He hoped so.

  Hunkering down behind his shelter, he ignored the wild, retaliatory shooting from the cabin as he swiftly reloaded the hot Winchester. Then he rolled away from his original position, dropped back down the small slope, and ran, crouching, along behind the screening rocks, down the arroyo to a brush thicket he had spotted earlier. It was mainly sotol and hackberry, with a few clumps of sage scattered through it. That suited him fine; sotol was one of the most inflammable bushes in this part of the country.

  He lit a vesta and dropped it into the nearest sotol bush. He ran around to another clump a few yards further on, fired that, too, and another closer to the edge of the arroyo. By that time, most of the thicket was ablaze and smoke was billowing, caught in the air currents coming down from the arroyo and sweeping in towards the cabin. The flames licked high and writhed like snake’s tongues through the brownish-white smoke.

  The cabin was obliterated by smoke in minutes and the flames gradually crept closer. Clay Nash leapt up the opposite wall of the arroyo and, keeping the pall of smoke between himself and the cabin, made his way along the steep-sided wall towards the end of the arroyo. He could see the cabin now, hazily, through the smoke and flames. The shingles were afire. Sparks showered down onto the stoop and the bullet-pocked front door. The burlap drapes at the window blazed. Nash worked his way along further until he could see the rear of the cabin. Two men were coming out, coughing, guns in hand. He looked around quickly, saw some rocks perched right on the arroyo rim and began making his way there. They spotted him and both triggered on the run. The bullets kicked up dirt a foot from his body.

  Nash threw himself for the shelter of the rocks. Lead sang off them as he scrabbled in behind. Then he worked himself around, saw the two men were running for a pocket at the far end of the arroyo where the horses were tethered. The other Morne brother didn’t appear at the cabin door, but the two half-breed women did and they were both carrying guns. They were shouting curses at the two men who were obviously looking after their own necks. Nash fired at the men and then saw the women lift their guns and begin shooting. But they didn’t shoot at his shelter, they, too, were firing at the running Morne brothers. He grinned tightly. Looked like they didn’t take any too kindly to the outlaws quitting the burning cabin and leaving them to their own devices.

  One of the brothers went down, skidding, and Nash could not be sure whether it was from one of his bullets or from a shot fired by the half-breed women. But the man, Howie, he thought, rolled over onto his shoulders, somersaulted, and staggered to his feet. Then he went down again and Nash knew it was his bullet this time. It took Howie Morne clean through the head. He didn’t move after he dropped. But, Larry, now the only surviving Morne, stopped and spun towards Nash’s shelter, shouting curses as he emptied his rifle savagely. Nash ducked as lead whined and slapped around his shelter. Then he threw the rifle to his shoulder and took a swift sight as Larry drew his six-gun and started to pound up the slope towards him.

  Nash shot Larry through the middle of the chest and he ran several yards before abruptly dropping and rolling and skidding back down the slope. Nash swung the rifle barrel towards the two women but they had dropped their guns now and had their hands up in the air, coughing as the smoke billowed around them. The cabin was engulfed in flames.

  Nash levered in a fresh shell and stood warily. He walked down slowly, placing his boots carefully. The women watched him impassively, their features strongly Indian, eyes glittering. He came down to the flat and walked across. O
ne of them suddenly reached her hand to the back of her neck and he dropped to one knee and fired, whipping his head aside as the knife flashed past, to clatter on the stones behind him. The woman cried out as she was lifted off her feet by the bullet which ripped into her side. She lay on the ground, moaning, and holding the bleeding wound, gray-faced, no more fight in her. The other one, pale, taut about the mouth, shook her head swiftly as Nash turned the smoking Winchester towards her. He stood up slowly, not moving any closer.

  “Cal,” he said.

  The half-breed woman jerked her head back towards the blazing cabin. “He die first. You shoot through door.”

  Nash nodded, glancing at the wounded woman. “You can doctor her, then bury the Mornes. After that, I’ll be on my way. But if I was you, I wouldn’t head back to Quemodo. You ain’t got many friends left there after takin’ up with the Mornes.”

  She looked at him impassively.

  Nash allowed them to keep the Mornes’ horses and guns, though he took the ammunition. They could sell the firearms and the horses at the next town they came to. The woman he had shot would pull through; it was only a flesh wound and she didn’t seem to bear him any undue animosity. He watched them ride out of the arroyo, glanced at the single grave where the three Morne brothers rested, then headed back to where he had left his own horse.

  It was a relief to know the chore was over. It had been one of the longest and most arduous so far and he was glad the Mornes were dead, too. The West would not miss their kind.

  Wearily, he mounted his big-chested bay gelding and rode slowly out of the arroyo, heading back towards the old Magdalena Trail that would eventually take him to Socorro.

  There he would wire his boss, James Hume, that the mission was accomplished and he was on his way back. He knew there would be another assignment waiting for him.

  ~*~

  At about the same time that Considine realized his mount was going lame, he glanced back and saw the funnel of dust rising out of the canyon he had passed through only an hour earlier. He swore as he swung down out of the saddle to examine the big black’s right forefoot. The dust meant pursuit, something he could do without right now.

  He cursed again at the stupidity of the man he had killed back in Socorro. If the fool had merely recognized him and let it go at that, things would have been okay. But, no, as always, wherever he went, as soon as he was recognized, someone wanted to see if he was really as fast as legend had it.

  Considine had headed into New Mexico because he wasn’t wanted by the law here for anything, and few folk would have even heard of him. He was from the north, the Dakotas and Montana being his stamping ground. It was just plain bad luck that he’d run into the fellow in Socorro who had recognized him up in Blackwood, the man had claimed. Which was likely true, for he had had several gunfights in that town and one had been rigged like a circus, with tickets being sold to watch as he and another gunman, Stanton Bodie, had faced each other in the center of an arena. He had walked away from that one, not only unscathed, but with a thousand dollars in his pocket. Two days later, he hadn’t been able to pay for a meal; the gaming tables had taken the thousand.

  That idiot in Socorro! he thought angrily again. If only he had been content to brag about having seen Considine in action in Blackwood, the gunfighter would have gone along with things and eased out of town quietly. But, no; the man had got to thinking that it was a long time back and there hadn’t been much heard about Considine lately. Maybe the man was getting old. This was true enough. Considine was forty-two now and that was a fine old age for any gunfighter. Maybe he had slowed down, the man was thinking. Maybe he wasn’t as fast as he used to be ...

  Considine had seen it all in his face—he didn’t even know the man’s name, but that was nothing unusual; he didn’t know the names of half the men he had killed. He had seen the jerky motions as the man had downed his drink and waved irritably for the barkeep to bring him another. Then the gunfighter had decided to ease his way out of town slowly and without fuss.

  It wasn’t to be that way. The man who had recognized him, fired with liquor, egged on by his pards, was waiting when Considine brought his black through the livery doorway.

  “Let’s see just how goddamn fast you are, mister!”

  Considine would have liked a dollar for every time he had heard those challenging words, or slight variations of them. There was no way out once they had been uttered; he had to prove he was fast with a gun, faster than the challenger. He was getting very weary these days, and found himself more and more impatient to get the fight over with. Which was dangerous in itself; an impatient man often made mistakes. Once, in a fit of black depression, he had even half-hoped the other man would beat his draw, and then he might have some peace.

  But that was only once. He didn’t aim to die just yet. So, the challenge had been met, right there in the sundown glow of Socorro’s main street. It had taken no effort at all. Considine had downed the man with a single shot and the other’s gun hadn’t even cleared leather. No one had tried to stop Considine as he mounted the black and rode out.

  Until now. He knew that dust pall meant someone was after him. It was instinct, a hunch, call it want you will, but he knew. A man didn’t ride the wild trails he had followed for so many years without getting a gut-feeling about these things.

  And his horse had chosen this time to go lame on him. He was only a third of the way to Quemodo, along the Magdalena Trail and there was nothing ahead for ten miles but open flats, before the foothills of a purple-hazed range lifted above the plains. There was nowhere to hide, no real place he could make a stand. Not unless he dug a hole in the ground and used it as a trench, like the soldiers.

  The hell with it. That didn’t appeal to him. If he was going to have to fight, he would do it out in the open, as he always had. He took another look at the black’s forefoot. It was pretty bad; flint was always the worst kind of stone to get under a shoe. It was hard, sharp-angled, and had worked its way in deep. But the black would be good for maybe one short run, say ten yards. It could be enough, if he made the best use of it. He would have to wait, let the pursuit overhaul him. Let it? He laughed bitterly. He had no damn choice! The riders would appear soon enough and when they saw him walking in front of his mount, they would close in eagerly, figuring him ready for the slaughter. That was the time when he would have to make use of whatever was left in the black.

  Considine walked on, a tall, rangy man, dressed in dusty trail clothes, beard-shagged, looking little different to many of the drifters around the southwest, except for his eyes. They were hard, mean, or with the potential for meanness. The narrow hips and the single, low-slung gun, with the cartridge belt sharply angled across his hard, flat belly set him apart from other men too. He had ‘gunslinger’ branded deep on him for anyone who could read the signs. Yet, to men who didn’t know any different, he may have seemed like any other fiddle-footed saddle tramp who was used to a rugged life on lonely trails. And that was one reason he had chosen to head out into the wild lands, where a man was expected to look tough and mean and wear his gun any way he pleased and there were few questions asked.

  But Considine didn’t aim to be buried out here by the Magdalena Trail, before he even got the chance to try his luck on the far-out frontier beyond Quemodo. So he checked his gun’s loads and took the rifle from the scabbard as the black limped along beside him. He glanced back. The dust spiral was drawing closer. Pretty soon they would be out of the canyon and starting across the flats. He judged there to be only two or three horsemen, by the size of the dust-cloud, and that was something to be thankful for. He figured he could handle that many, but not a full-scale posse.

  Considine walked on, leading the black who favored the right forefoot more and more. He frowned, having to revise his estimate of how far he could push the horse before the leg gave out under it. He would be lucky to run it five yards and that was cutting things a mite too close. Well, he was a tolerable shot with a rifle and maybe
the best thing he could do was to try to pick them off at long range. He wouldn’t have to hit the men, necessarily; if he shot their mounts out from under them, it would be enough. They would be in the same boat as him then; but he knew they wouldn’t come after him on foot. Not unless they were loco.

  The heat pulsed around him and hung in a wavering curtain before him distorting his vision. He squinted his eyes against the glare, yanking on the reins, dragging the reluctant black after him. The hills seemed to be farther away than ever. He knew it wasn’t so but it didn’t help his morale. They appeared to be more distant than earlier and that was the fact his brain accepted.

  The ground underfoot was loose beneath the crust of hard soil. He was leaving a thin curtain of dust behind him, effectively marking his trail, just as the big dust-cloud indicated the progress of the pursuing riders. Considine stiffened when he looked back over his shoulder. By hell, they were a lot closer than he had expected to see them! They were sweeping in less than a mile away now!

  He glanced around swiftly. No, there was just nowhere he could make a stand. Wait! What was that, wavering through the heat-haze? It looked like ... It was! A hillock. Not very big, but he would be able to get behind it and use it as a perfect place to pick off the other riders. How far? Ten yards? Twelve? No, closer to ten. He looked at the horse, then glanced back towards the riders. He could see their shapes beneath the dust cloud now. Two men. Hell, he could handle them with no trouble at all, from that hillock.

  Considine stepped swiftly into the saddle and immediately the horse whinnied a protest and hobbled on three legs. The gunfighter slammed home his heels and cuffed the animal across the head. He twisted its ears savagely and, when that didn’t make it move fast enough, he leaned down and bit savagely on the left ear. The horse’s head reared up and gave him a bloody nose, but he grinned through the scarlet stream that ran down his chin as the black leapt forward and made a plunging run for the hillock.