Clay Nash 7

by Brett Waring

  Nash merely stared at him, leaving the next move up to the gunfighter.

  “I owe you plenty,” Considine said tightly, his mouth ugly now, his eyes cold and dangerous. “You’re tradin’ on that.”

  “I won’t deny it,” Nash said. “I’ll trade on anything if it’ll make my job easier while I’m here.”

  “You know I ain’t gonna draw on you.”

  “No,” Nash denied. “That I don’t know. I might hope you ain’t gonna draw on me, but I’m damned if I know it.”

  “Then take it from me as gospel,” the gunfighter told him.

  “I got a code, too. You saved my neck and I owe you more than just a feed bill and a plate of steak and eggs. But I don’t like you pushin’ me, Nash. Don’t like any man doin’ that. You’re already luckier than most. Not many would’ve gotten as far as you have and still be vertical and breathin’.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Considine. I don’t aim to force a showdown between us, but you step out of line when that trail crew arrives and we’ve just got to clash. How far you take it is up to you.”

  The gunfighter didn’t like being spoken to like that and his knuckles were white where they gripped the shot glass. His lips were pulled into a razor-thin line and his eyes glittered, cold and deadly. The three drinkers edged towards the batwings and the barkeep ran a tongue across his lips and moved slowly down the counter, closer to the door that led to the back of the saloon. He aimed to be well out of the way if lead started to fly.

  “You’re takin’ too many liberties, Nash,” Considine muttered. “No man talks to me like that!”

  “I just did,” Nash said and waited.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Considine swore and suddenly heaved the table up and into Nash, knocking the Wells Fargo man sprawling. He hit the floor and the table came down on top of him. The barkeep ducked under the counter and the men by the batwings ran outside, but came back to stare over the tops of the doors, curious to see what was going to happen next.

  Nash kicked the table aside and started to get up, but Considine walked forward and drove his boot into the Wells Fargo man’s side, sending him skidding across the floor into other tables and chairs which clattered down around him.

  “I won’t draw, but that don’t mean I have to sit there and let you sass me, Nash!” Considine gritted, heaving chairs aside as he reached down and twisted his fingers in Nash’s hair, yanking him to his feet. Nash slammed two hard blows into the gunfighter’s midriff and the grip on his hair loosened, but not completely. Considine pulled Nash’s head back and butted him in the face. Nash’s legs buckled and blood spurted from his nose. Considine butted him again and a gash opened above Nash’s left eye. Blood blinded him and he knew that Considine didn’t want to use his fists on him in case he damaged his hands.

  Considine flung Nash back against the wall and the impact slammed the breath from the Wells Fargo man. Lights burst behind his eyes as he tried to wipe blood away from his vision. Considine turned side on and drove an elbow into Nash’s ribs. He gagged and doubled up. Considine snapped a knee up into his face and Nash went down, rolling instinctively away from the boots he knew would be waiting. They drove into his side, once, twice, three times. Then he stopped rolling, grabbed at Considine’s leg, when he kicked him again, and hung on.

  The gunman hopped around, trying to keep his balance, and Nash looked up, bared his teeth in a tight grin and smashed his clubbed fist onto Considine’s bruised and swollen right hip. The man sobbed in sudden pain and his leg buckled. Nash threw his weight back and the gunfighter came down with a crash. Nash rolled aside, lay on his back and drove both feet forward. They slammed into Considine’s chest and sent him spinning across the floor.

  Nash started to get to his feet, stumbled twice, but thrust upright and wiped the back of his hand across his left eye that was again filling with blood from the cut. He saw the gunfighter staggering upright, favoring his right leg. Nash lunged forward in a flying dive, arms out, driving his head violently into Considine’s midriff and grabbing the man about the hips, carrying him over and back to crash down amongst splintering tables and chairs.

  They rolled and skidded across the floor, each gouging and driving with knees and boots, trying to get uppermost. They did not hear the cheers of the crowd that had gathered just inside the batwings now and at the saloon windows. Nash caught a boot in the mouth and his head snapped back. He reeled as Considine staggered to his feet and stumbled forward, stomping again. Nash spun away, somersaulted backwards and bounded to his feet with a great effort that seemed to wrench every muscle in his body. Considine wasn’t expecting it and Nash bored in, arms going like pistons. He slammed the man’s guard aside, hammered at his face, shifted attack to his midriff and rammed home with his shoulder, using his weight to force the gunfighter to retreat step by step. Considine back-pedaled, covering up, trying not to use his fists, and was suddenly brought up short by the barroom wall. His body jolted as Nash drove home several blows to his midriff, shaking the man badly.

  Considine lashed out and his fist caught Nash on the cheekbone and laid open the flesh. He slammed at Nash’s head again and he ducked and took the blow on the top of his skull. It put him down to one knee and his senses reeled, but he saw the gunfighter stumble away, shaking his hurt hand violently. He would bet that that blow had popped a knuckle on the man’s gun hand.

  Then the gunfighter stepped in and used an elbow against Nash’s temple, sending him sprawling. Nash grabbed an overturned chair and flung it one-handed. Considine warded it off with his forearms and by then Nash was up and following through. He drove the gunfighter back against the wall by sheer body weight, pinned him there with one hand while he punched him on the jaw with the other. Considine’s head rapped the wall and his eyes began to glaze. Nash hit him again on the jaw, then stepped back, wound up his right and sent one final, looping blow crashing against the side of the gunfighter’s head.

  Considine went down to his knees, already semi-conscious. Nash stepped in and drove a hard knee against the man’s head and stretched him out on the floor. The gunfighter lay there, twitching, bleeding, unconscious.

  Clay Nash staggered forward and managed to hook his elbows onto the counter top, signaling the barkeep with his fingers, unable to speak, blood dripping onto the zinc top from his battered face. The barkeep hurried down, snatched a bottle and shot glass and splashed some whisky into it. Nash had to use both hands and even then spilled some. He let the glass stay on the counter and lowered his bleeding face towards it. He swore as the raw spirit stung his split lips but swallowed it down, tasting blood. The barkeep refilled the glass. Nash downed this too, then pushed more or less upright, and turned, flopping back so that his elbows supported him against the edge of the counter, looking down at the sprawled Considine. The man was beginning to stir.

  “If I was you, Mr. Nash,” the barkeep said worriedly, “I wouldn’t worry none about this town any more. I’d just quit it mighty fast. When he comes round, he’ll be stalkin’ after you with a gun in his hand.”

  “Mebbe and mebbe not,” Nash panted, dabbing at his various cuts with his kerchief. “He still owes me somethin’. I reckon he might recollect that. If he doesn’t …” Nash shrugged. He knew there would be little sense in trying to outrun a man like Considine if he wanted to gun him down. He would travel to the ends of the earth if he had to, once he made his decision. “Might as well throw a bucket of water over him and help bring him round.”

  “Not me!” the barkeep said, shaking his head violently. “He can take all the time he wants. I ain’t in any hurry to see him walkin’ about again.”

  Despite his cuts, Nash smiled faintly. “Okay. Well, I better go see what the rest of the town thinks about me pinning on a badge for a spell.”

  “They’ll be all for it after this,” the barkeep said, gesturing to Considine.

  Nash nodded, took his hat that one of the townsmen handed him, then made his way towards the batwings on rubbery legs.


  By the time he had reached the telegraph office, word had gone on ahead and the telegraphist greeted him with a wide grin. “Yes sir, sheriff, what can I do for you?”

  Nash nodded with a suggestion of a smile. “Let me have another message form.” He wrote a new message to Jim Hume and handed it across the counter. “Send that off right away and let me know as soon as you get a reply.”

  “Sure will, sheriff. Right away. I got a rainwater butt out back if you want to wash-up.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nash washed the blood and dirt from his face and then the telegraphist dabbed iodine on his cuts, telling him that he had dispatched the message to Jim Hume in Santa Fe. Back in the store, they found the place packed with townsfolk and Brewster, the Wells Fargo agent, was in the forefront, holding out a brass sheriff’s star.

  “We’d be mighty proud to have you pin this on, Nash,” he said. “Even if it is only until sundown.”

  Nash took the badge and pinned it on his vest. They swore him in with a brief oath-of-office and Brewster shook hands with him firmly, grinning.

  “Hell, man, we’re sure glad to have you here. Macklin’s herd is settlin’ down right now out on the holdin’ grounds. His crew’ll hit this place before long.”

  Nash nodded. “Anyone seen Considine?”

  The faces sobered fast.

  “Understand he got himself washed-up behind the saloon, got a bottle of redeye and went upstairs to a room,” Brewster said. “He never said nothin’. Not a word. Kicked a drummer out of the room, but he was about to leave anyways, so he ain’t gonna make any trouble about it. Could be Considine’s gonna just sit up there and brood about that beatin’ you gave him, Nash.”

  “Well, it sure wasn’t one-sided. Just take a look at my face. But, we’ll leave Considine be for now. If he don’t make any trouble that’s fine with me. Reckon I’ll have enough on my hands with that curly-wolf trail crew about to hit town.”

  “Reckon you will,” Brewster told him. Then he looked a little uncomfortable as he added, “There’s somethin’ else, too, Nash ... ”

  Nash waited, frowning puzzledly.

  “Well, Lucas Enderby and Mitch ... they had a half-sister, Lynn. She lives in a house just outside of town. Grows vegetables and fruit for a livin’, puts up preserves and so on. Well, she don’t know about Lucas and Mitch yet, and we figured that, seein’ as you were ... ”

  He let the words trail off and Nash stared at him hard for a few seconds then sighed and nodded slowly. “Yeah, all right. I guess it’s my job to tell her. She likely to take a shotgun to me or somethin’?”

  Brewster shrugged. “Keeps pretty much to herself. Reckon she never had much time for her half-brothers, but it’s kind of hard to tell with a gal like Lynn.”

  “Where do I find her place?” Nash asked resignedly.

  ~*~

  Lynn Enderby’s place was really a small farm, although it was within a mile of Socorro. There was a neat little log cottage with a stone chimney and a flower garden in the front yard protected by a low white picket fence. Behind and to the sides, there were vegetable plots, green with crops, and, some distance behind the cabin, groves of fruit trees; peaches, pears, and he thought he smelled almond blossoms as he dismounted and walked stiffly to the front door. Honeysuckle twined around the trellis on the small porch and he stood there a little awkwardly, waiting for someone to answer his knock. When the door opened, he got quite a shock.

  Lynn Enderby was a small, petite redhead, with a smooth white skin and pale green eyes. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, if that. She was neatly dressed in pale blue gingham with a flowery apron tied about her waist. But what startled him most was the twin-barreled shotgun she held in her hands, the hammers cocked.

  Nash stepped back hurriedly and lifted his hands halfway to his shoulders.

  “Make that all the way, mister!” the girl ordered and Nash lifted his hands above his head. “Now, what do you want?”

  “Well, ma’am, I ... Listen, would you mind pointin’ that gun someplace else? I get kind of nervous when a cocked twelve-gauge is in the hands of a young lady.”

  “I’m quite capable of handling it, I assure you. And I don’t intend to point it anyplace else, except at your belly, until you tell me what you want and who you are. I saw you coming up my path, with your battered face, and the fresh daubs of iodine. I wasn’t about to take any chances with some drifter like that!”

  “Well, I guess that makes sense,” Nash said and he saw her suddenly frown as she saw the sheriff’s star pinned to his vest. “Er—yeah, ma’am. I’m the new sheriff in Socorro. Temporary, but the law just the same, for the moment.”

  “What happened to Lucas? Did he resign?”

  “You might say that. Actually, he’s resigned sort of permanent. I mean ... I killed him. But he was tryin’ to kill me at the time, so don’t go gettin’ trigger-happy.”

  She stared at him disconcertingly with those green eyes as she let his words sink in but he was unable to read anything in them. He took a deep breath and told her briefly what had happened and how he had come to gun down her half-brother.

  “I figured it was my job to tell you,” he finished quietly.

  Lynn Enderby nodded slowly. “I’d heard about Mitch being killed in a gunfight. I wasn’t surprised. He was a lout, boastful, a bully, walking in Lucas’ shadow ...”

  Nash lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t sound as if you mind too much.”

  “Not about either of my half-brothers, Mr. Nash,” she told him candidly. “They were only half-brothers, sons of my mother’s second husband. We never did get along. They tried to move in here after ma died, but I wouldn’t have them. Their own father cleared off and left us many years ago. He might be dead for all I know, or care for that matter. No, I’m afraid I can’t grieve over either Lucas or Mitchell. I have too many unpleasant memories of them.”

  Nash looked relieved. “Well, you reckon you could kind of turn that shotgun away from me now, then?”

  She didn’t move it right away, but finally nodded, eased down the hammers and lowered the gun. Nash put his arms down slowly. She studied him closely.

  “You think you’re tough enough to ramrod the law in a town like Socorro with Macklin’s trail hands about to hit the saloons, Mr. Nash?”

  “Remains to be seen, I guess, but I’ll try.”

  “If I was you, I wouldn’t depend too much on this man Considine remembering that he owes you his life,” she advised.

  “I won’t. Well, guess I’d better go see if my boss has answered the wire I sent him yet.”

  She said nothing and Nash touched a hand to his hat brim and turned to go.

  “Good luck, Mr. Nash. You’re going to need it. You’re either a brave man or a fool. I’m not sure which.”

  Nash smiled faintly and shook his head slowly as he walked back down the path to the tiny gate and stepped over it. When he had mounted, he looked back but the door of the cabin was closed and there was no sign of the girl.

  Four – First Blood

  The trail men were already settling the herd on the holding grounds when Nash rode out there, the star on his vest glinting in the sun. He sat his mount to one side and watched the men at work. They knew their jobs and worked fast, no doubt eager to get away from the trail camp and head into Socorro. When most of the herd was settled down, Nash rode through the pall of dust, stopped a cowpoke and asked where he would find Macklin. The man pointed out the trail boss over near the chuck wagon, talking with several men.

  Nash rode over, seeing that Macklin was a man in his fifties, rugged, leathery, burned mahogany by countless suns. He was giving orders to the group of men in a rough, gravelly voice. Obviously, they were the unlucky ones who would be watching the herd while the rest of the crew moved into Socorro. Macklin glanced up at Nash’s approach and his eyes focused right away on the sheriff’s badge. He looked puzzled.

  “Where’s Lucas Enderby?” he grated, the other men looki
ng at Nash, too, now.

  “Dead,” Nash told him flatly. “So’s Morg Wheeler, his deputy. I’m sheriff of Socorro for now. Name of Clay Nash.”

  “Macklin here. You come to tell us somethin’, sheriff?” Nash nodded. “Take it easy when you and your crew hit town, that’s about the size of it. I’ve been a trail herder myself. I’ll give you a fair run, but at the first sign of real trouble that might endanger townsfolk or put them in fear, I’ll come down on you like a herd of buffalo.”

  Macklin and the others stared hard at Nash and finally looked away under his unwavering gaze.

  “You’re the one who decides when enough’s enough, that it?” Macklin asked tightly.

  “That’s it.” There was no compromise in Nash.

  “We been used to more of a free hand in Socorro,” Macklin said carefully. “We had an arrangement with Enderby ... and the saloon men. Was kind of profitable all round. We had our fun and everyone was happy. Why don’t you step down and set a spell? Cookie makes a tolerable brew of java and we could mebbe talk a spell.”

  “I’ve said my piece, Macklin. Pass it on to your men.”

  Nash reined his mount around and started to ride away from the chuck wagon.

  “You can’t pull this kinda thing on us, Nash!” yelled Macklin. “We’ve drove them dogies near five hundred miles! We’re entitled to cut loose!”

  Nash said nothing and didn’t look back. He merely rode on through the dust of the cattle camp, hearing the wild yells and whoops of the cowboys as they finished their chores and headed for the water butt to wash up before hitting town.

  He had an idea he was going to have himself a busy day. At the telegraph office Nash found a wire from Hume waiting for him, requesting more details about his plan to act as temporary lawman in Socorro. Nash and the telegraphist spent over an hour at the key, sending off wires and getting back replies almost immediately. Nash knew that Hume, too, was standing by a telegraph key with an operator, assessing the information, sending queries, studying the answers. Finally, Hume’s last wire arrived.