Clay Nash 7

by Brett Waring

  O.K. ADMINISTER LAW SOCORRO TILL U.S. MARSHAL ARRIVES OR IMMEDIATE DANGER IS PAST, WHICHEVER IS SOONER. ASSIGNMENT WAITING HERE.

  HUME.

  The telegraph operator shoved up his green eyeshade and grinned at Nash. “We’re sure glad to have you with us, Nash! You’re the kind of hombre we want ramroddin’ the law around here. The way you handled Considine ... !” He whistled softly and shook his head admiringly.

  “I was lucky there,” Nash told him. “If he didn’t figure he owed me somethin’, I’d be long dead. Don’t judge me by that brawl.”

  “It was still a good fight, a mighty good one. Whether he’s better than you with a gun, or whatever he owes you, you proved you were better with your fists.”

  Nash touched some of the cuts and bruises on his face gently, smiled wryly. “Dunno if it was worth it.”

  He went out onto the street, looked around the plaza and then headed for the small, narrow building near the Buckskin Bar that had ‘Law Office’ painted above the door. It wasn’t locked and smelled musty and sour. Nash threw up the window, opened the rear door at the end of the passage past the cells, then found a broom and began sweeping out Enderby’s accumulated rubbish. He looked up as a shadow darkened the street doorway, right hand moving towards his gun butt, but stopped when he recognized the small figure of Lynn Enderby. Nash straightened and nodded, puzzled.

  “I know my half-brother lived like a pig wherever he happened to be,” the girl said. “I see his office is no better and no worse than I expected. Can’t have you thinking all the Enderbys live like this, Sheriff Nash. I’ve come to help you clean it out.”

  “No need for that, ma’am. I can give it a quick sweep and it’ll be habitable.”

  The girl was already rolling up her sleeves, “There’s a pail, mop and lye out back, all unused. You can get hot water from the saloon next door. You go fill the pail and I’ll scrub the place out for you.”

  “Look, ma’am, there’s no need “

  “All right, I’ll get the hot water myself.”

  Nash sighed and held up a hand, gave her the broom. “I’ll fetch it.”

  The girl began sweeping as he located the pail and went next door to the saloon for the hot water. She wrinkled her nose at the layers of dirt and shook her head, wondering how anyone could happily live in such filth. She used the broom to batter several cockroaches and two spiders to death, and was sweeping the corpses over the stoop, into the street when the first bunch of cowboys came whooping and hollering into the plaza. Lynn paused as they rode in, yelling wildly, scattering townsfolk, two of them running their mounts up onto the boardwalks and clattering along, sending pedestrians hunting cover in a hurry.

  They raced all round the plaza and slowed down when they approached the law office and saw the girl standing there. They reined in and a tall redhead with long sideburns pointed to the girl.

  “Hey! Old Macklin’s been holdin’ out on us!” he said. “He told us there was a new sheriff in Socorro but he didn’t say she wore skirts!” They all laughed. “Man, I reckon I’m gonna enjoy breakin’ the law in this here burg!”

  “You ain’t.”

  The cowboys sobered and snapped their heads around. Nash had just come out of the saloon with the pail of steaming water and had approached quietly while their attention was on Lynn Enderby. The sun flashed from the sheriff’s badge on his vest.

  “You could be wrong, mister,” the redhead told him tersely. “You could be the one who won’t enjoy us breakin’ the law!”

  “Just take it easy,” Nash said equably. “Have your fun but keep it down to a reasonable level and we won’t have to argue. Go too far and you’ve got trouble.”

  The men looked at him but didn’t say anything. The redhead scowled, yanked his horse’s head around savagely and rammed home the spurs. He took off with a wild Indian whoop and the others followed on another wild gallop around the plaza before they finally reined-down outside the Hangtree Saloon and went swaggering inside.

  Inside the law office, Lynn looked up as she dunked the mop in the hot water and lye solution in the pail. “That redhead’s going to make trouble.”

  Nash nodded. “Him and the others. He’s just the ringleader. They’ll have to try me out, I guess.”

  “Well, then, the sooner we get the cells swamped out the better,” the girl said and carried the bucket and mop through to the cell-block. In a few minutes, Nash heard the swish of the mop on the stone floor and the girl singing softly. He grabbed a rag and began to wipe down the cluttered roll-top desk. He figured he would be officially ‘open for business’ within the hour.

  It didn’t take that long.

  Lynn Enderby finished swamping-out the cell-block and gave the front office floor a swift clean-up with the mop and lye solution. Nash wiped the back of a hand across his sweating forehead.

  “Didn’t realize housework was so hard,” he grinned.

  The girl smiled, her cheeks flushed from her exertions. “Helps us ladies keep our figures trim. Well, sheriff, I think you will find the law office a little more livable now.”

  “Sure is. Thanks again, ma’am.”

  You’d better call me Lynn. Everyone else does in Socorro.”

  “Fine, Lynn. My name’s Clay. Can I walk you to your house or horse or whatever?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll do a little shopping first and then head back home. Can you take care of the pail?”

  Nash nodded and took it from her. She rolled down her sleeves, primped her hair a little in front of the cracked wall mirror, then left. Nash watched her go through the doorway, then went out into the yard behind the jailhouse to empty out the pail. He pumped clean water into it, rinsed it, then filled it with water again and took it back into the front office. In a wooden building like his, it always paid to have a bucket of water on hand for use against a possible fire.

  He set the pail down by the window, looking out through the now clean and shining glass, across the sunlit plaza. It was still only mid-morning but, judging by the raucous singing and yells coming from the Hangtree, things were livening up. Then he stiffened. Lynn Enderby had come out of the emporium near the Hangtree, her arms loaded with parcels and three cowpokes were stepping out of the shadows of the saloon porch. He recognized the redhead. The man had a stone whisky jug in his hand. He lifted it to his mouth, tilted his head back to drain it, then turned to wink at his companions as he leaned down and rolled the jug along the boardwalk, directly in Lynn’s path. She could not see it because of the parcels she carried.

  Nash swore, went through the door and was pounding across the plaza in a flash. But he was too late. The jug had entangled Lynn’s feet and she stumbled, her parcels spilling as she instinctively put out her hands to keep from falling. The cowpokes laughed and the redhead managed to stomp all over a couple of packages. The others were making a big deal about helping the angry girl to her feet and Nash gritted his teeth as he saw them pawing her mercilessly.

  She was flushed and kicking and hammering at them but they had no trouble holding her and the redhead moved in, grabbed her chin and leaned down to kiss her.

  Nash slammed into the redhead like an express train, driving a fist into the man’s kidneys. He gagged sickly, stumbled forward and fell to the boardwalk, gray-faced, clawing at his back. The other two cowpokes released Lynn and she moved swiftly to one side as the men stepped forward to meet Nash. One man went for his gun. Nash’s Colt leapt into his hand and blasted and the man jerked, lifted off his feet by the slug.

  His body slammed back through the batwings and fell with the upper part in the saloon and the twitching legs out on the boardwalk.

  The other man threw himself at Nash and wrapped his arms about his body, carrying him back into the street where they both went down in the dust. Nash slammed the barrel of his gun across the man’s head, knocking off his hat. The man was semiconscious but still tried to lock his fingers around Nash’s throat. The sheriff hit him again, dead center on the forehead this tim
e. The cowboy collapsed and Nash squirmed out from under him and panting, got to his feet.

  “Look out, Clay!” cried the girl.

  Nash whirled and saw that the redhead was on his knees, clawing at his six-gun. The sheriff kicked out with a long leg and the toe of his boot caught the redhead on the point of the jaw. The man’s head snapped back and he went down hard, knocked out. Nash spun towards the batwings as the other cowboys came pouring out, his smoking gun covering them. They were angry and loudly abused him for shooting their comrade.

  “He went for his gun first. Anyone on the street can testify to that,” Nash told them, grim-faced.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I seen, it from across the way.”

  Nash looked up in surprise at that voice. Considine was pushing through the gathering crowd, his cold eyes on Nash’s face. He confronted the sheriff and gestured to the Colt in his hand.

  “Never realized you were so fast with that gun, Nash,” he said and there was a hint of admiration in his voice. “That was a mighty slick draw.”

  Nash grunted and turned back to the cowboys. “These hombres molested a townswoman. That’s where I draw the line. Have fun and do whatever you like as long as it don’t harm anyone else or someone’s property. That way we’ll get along.”

  He holstered the Colt and looked at Lynn Enderby who was straightening her clothes. Townsmen were gathering her parcels.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks to your quick intervention, Clay.”

  Nash shrugged, turned, and met the steady, appraising gaze of Considine. “You buyin’ in?” Nash asked flatly.

  The gunfighter’s eyes narrowed and he smiled crookedly with his split lips, hooking his thumbs in his slanted gunbelt.

  “Not this time.”

  Nash held his gaze a moment longer then reached down and grabbed the shirt collar of the unconscious redhead. He dragged the man across beside the other gun whipped cowboy and twisted his fingers in the man’s vest. He started forward across the plaza, dragging an unconscious cowhand with each hand.

  “Hey! You ain’t lockin’ em’ up!” called one of the cowboys.

  Nash paused and looked back. “I am. You want to try and stop me?”

  There was a flat challenge in Nash’s words and manner and the cowboys shuffled their boots uneasily, but no one made any attempt to stop the sheriff as he turned and lugged the unconscious men across the plaza towards the law office.

  The cowboys went back into the saloon, dragging their dead companion with them. The townsfolk gathered in a tight knot and began discussing the incident. The unanimous consensus of opinion was that they had a real winner in Clay Nash as Sheriff of Socorro.

  Considine strolled along the boardwalk, alone as usual, picking at his teeth with a sliver of wood, looking thoughtful.

  ~*~

  Macklin stared at the tight-faced men as they confronted him, then lifted the tin mug of coffee and drained it. He tossed the dregs onto the cook fire and dumped the mug in the wash pail at the end of the chuck wagon. Slowly, he started to remove his stained leather chaps.

  “Well, what we aim to do about it, Mack?” one of the men said, the horse breaker called ‘Mustang’, a lean, cadaverous type with one hooded eyelid. “If Enderby was here we wouldn’t have this trouble.”

  “Well, he ain’t here, is he?” Macklin growled and then sluiced water over his face and head. He dried himself on a piece of rag. “You just seen, most of you, how damn slick he is with a gun. One of the saloon men rode out and told me about this Nash feller, too. Wells Fargo man. Gunned down Enderby and Wheeler; beat the hell out of a hombre named Considine, who’s supposed to be a gunny from up north. He ain’t a man to mess with.”

  “You sayin’ you’re gonna leave Red and Buck in them cells?”

  Macklin looked at them all steadily. “I’m not sayin’ anythin’ of the sort. I stick by my men, you know that. What I am sayin’ is this hombre’s gotta be handled different to them other hick lawmen we sometimes roust a mite. He ain’t gonna back down just ’cause we ride in there in a bunch and tell him to turn our boys loose or we’ll tear up the town. That ain’t gonna work with this feller.”

  “Okay, mebbe we’ll go along with that. But what you reckon is gonna work?”

  Macklin ripped off his sweaty shirt and undershirt, his skin fish-belly white, corded with muscles, crisscrossed with old scars. He dipped a rag in the water butt and began to wash his upper body slowly.

  “I reckon we’re gonna have to show Nash—and Socorro— once and for all that Texas trail men ain’t to be messed with.” He glared at them. “You with me?”

  The others murmured and moved a little uneasily. Macklin swore impatiently.

  “Look, simple enough, ain’t it? Nash won’t turn ’em loose, we agree on that. Okay?” They murmured agreement. “Right. Then what’s left to us?” Silence reigned as the bunch thought about it. “We bust ’em out!”

  Mustang whistled. “Means goin’ out against Nash! If he gets mean and uses his guns ...”

  “We gotta see that he don’t, it’s as simple as that,” Macklin said. “I dunno about you fellers, but I’m a mite tired of these trail towns comin’ down hard on us cowmen. We spend months on the trail to bring ’em beef. We try to cut loose for a little wingding, and next we know, half our men are in jail or bein’ planted on Boothill because of some trigger-happy sheriff. Well, Nash’s got one strike against him already, by killing Orv. I reckon that’s the go-ahead for us. He’s shown us mighty plain that he don’t aim to fool around. We gotta do the same. Show him first, then the town.” He raked his eyes around the group. “You with me?”

  This time there was a chorus of agreement. Macklin dried himself off and reached into his warbag for a clean shirt.

  “Then let’s go!” he growled.

  Five – Debt Paid

  Clay Nash sat in the law office and began sorting through the papers on the cluttered desk. Most of them he consigned to the rubbish bin, but there were some reasonably recent Wanted dodgers that he tacked up on the front of the building.

  It was apparent that Lucas Enderby had been far more interested in his buffalo hunting than administering the law in Socorro. There were many papers dealing with orders for hides, payments, commissions, complaints about quality and grades. Most of them appeared to have been attended to—except the complaints. There had not been an entry in the law log book for more than six months. Either Enderby and Wheeler had not made any arrests during that time, or they simply hadn’t bothered recording them.

  The whole thing smelled, as far as Nash was concerned. Enderby obviously hadn’t done his job and that meant that he had ‘arrangements’, likely with every trailhead that passed through and, probably, with the saloon men too. Just after lunch, he was sure about the latter probability when the owner of the Hangtree, a man named Cavendish, and the owner of the Buckskin Bar, Lew Albany, came to see him. They both wore smiles and closed the door after them as they entered the tiny office. Red and Buck, the trail men, were yelling abuse from the cells in back and Cavendish crossed the room to close the door leading to the cells. Nash looked at them quizzically.

  They introduced themselves and Cavendish decided to be the spokesman.

  “Fine way you busted up that trouble outside my saloon earlier sheriff,” he said, smiling, running a thumb along his hairline moustache. “Could’ve been nasty for Miss Enderby. Those cowpokes can get a mite mean.”

  Nash said nothing, waiting.

  “But they don’t mean any harm,” Cavendish continued. “You likely know what it’s like yourself after weeks, months even, on the trail. They just want to cut loose a little, whoop it up, get drunk, have some fun.”

  “They can do all them things,” Nash said. “Long as they don’t hurt innocent folk. I don’t care if they crack their own thick skulls or their pards’, but once they start bothering townsfolk, then I step in.”

  “Sure, sure, that’s the way it should be,” Alba
ny agreed swiftly. “But ... well, this is a trail town, sheriff. Folks here are pretty tough. They’re used to a mite of roustin’ by these curly wolves. They bitch about it, sure, but no one comes to any real harm.”

  Nash looked at him coldly and the man’s voice trailed away. He looked towards Cavendish.

  “What Lew’s saying, sheriff, is that it’s been goin’ on for a long time here now and folks are kind of used to it. They know if cowpokes are in town, the best thing they can do is stay off the streets, until they move out. If they go where the cowmen are whoopin’ it up, they got to expect to be rousted some.”

  “No,” Nash said flatly. “This is their town. Why should they cower indoors just because a few wild hombres want to ride roughshod over everyone in sight? It’s the cowpokes who have to obey the laws if they want to keep comin’ to this town. If they don’t, I’ll toss ’em in jail.”

  Cavendish and Albany exchanged glances, unhappy now, no longer smiling.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what we come to see you about, Nash,” Cavendish said, more businesslike than wheedling now. “We had a kind of—arrangement—with Lucas Enderby and Morg Wheeler. They found business to attend to out of town for a few days when the cowmen came in. Or, if they did stay in town, they sort of looked the other way while the trail men had their fun.”

  Nash nodded. “I guessed it was something like that.” Albany leaned on the desk top. “We’re willing to give you the same deal, Nash. We stand to make a lot of cash while the trail herds are here and there’s at least one more headin’ in now. We make more in the couple of days the herds lay over here than in a month of normal trading. Can’t afford to pass that up, just because a couple of citizens get their feathers a mite ruffled.” He winked. “A few free drinks afterwards and they soon forget their complaints. What do you say, man?”

  Nash stared from one to the other, then he stood up slowly. Red and Buck started a fresh tirade, their voices muffled through the door. Nash gestured towards the cell-block.