Clay Nash 7

by Brett Waring

  “But I’m sure you’ll be able to depend on the town to back you up, should you need them, Clay,” the girl told him. “They’re grateful for the stand you’ve taken with the trail men so far. If you have difficulty at sundown, I’m sure the townsfolk will rally behind you.”

  “Well, let’s hope they don’t have to,” Nash said. “But Albany did say there was another trail herd due in. Know anything about it?”

  The girl frowned and slowly shook her head. “Not unless it’s Regan’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Lint Regan, another Texan. His and Macklin’s men have been in town together before. They seem to virtually race each other up the trail to railhead. Whoever arrives first sells his beef for top prices.”

  “Enemies?”

  “More like rivals, I think. There have been fights, but nothing too serious. I mean, it was fists, not guns, though several men were badly hurt.”

  Nash grunted. “Men can get badly hurt even when a cowboy’s only joshin’. Trail men’ve got a weird sense of humor. Well, with any luck, we’ll have one lot out of town before the others arrive. Might get a bit ticklish trying to handle both crews at once.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call on the town, Clay,” the girl told him. “You’ve risked plenty for them so far. Let them contribute something.”

  “We’ll see,” Nash said quietly.

  Six – The Burning Fuse

  Considine sat in the Hangtree Saloon soaking up whisky during the hot afternoon. His thoughts were centered on Clay Nash.

  Ever since Nash had gunned down Lucas Enderby and Morgan Wheeler Considine had felt uneasy. At first, he figured it was because he was indebted to someone and might not get the chance to square things before they went their separate ways. That was something he didn’t like; being under an obligation. He liked to square away his debts pronto.

  Some men would have figured that just allowing Nash to talk to him the way he had without retaliation was sufficient to call the debt cancelled, but not Considine. No, he paid back dollar for dollar, or in kind. Nash had saved his life. Nothing would do but for him to save Nash’s in return. And that he had done, not long ago, outside the law office. Maybe the trail men would not have killed Nash, but he might’ve been crippled-up some and keeping that from happening to a man was as good as saving his life, Considine reckoned. Nash had seemed to think it called things quits between them, anyway.

  But he still had a strange feeling that there was something ‘special’ about this Clay Nash hombre. It was a deep, gut-feeling that he couldn’t shake. It hadn’t gone away or even diminished after he had saved Nash. That fact was enough to make him look at it even more closely. He had seen Nash’s gun speed when he had smoked down that cowpoke outside this very saloon. He was no slouch, but on the basis of that draw, Considine figured he could outgun him. Still, the memory of the scene kept nagging at him; Nash whipping up that six-gun and blasting in a smooth, fully coordinated motion, muscles flowing in a natural rhythm ...

  Then he realized what it was that bothered him. He had the feeling that Nash, though reacting fast, hadn’t really been doing his best. It had been sufficient to handle the situation of the moment, drawing against a cowpoke who already had a gun out. But how would Nash react in a deliberate, cold-deck square-off? When he knew he had to outdraw and outshoot the other hombre? That was what was nagging at Considine; he wanted to see just how good Nash really was.

  It had been a long time since Considine had been bothered by thoughts like this. Nowadays, if he was in a gunfight, it was because somebody else started it, threw down the challenge ... which he would never ignore. But he didn’t go looking for gunfights these days, unless as sometimes happened, he was drunk and feeling mean.

  Right at the back of his mind, gradually creeping through into his consciousness, was the thought that maybe Nash was The Man, the one every gunfighter met sooner or later, the one with the faster gun and the deadlier aim. No gunfighter worthy of the name could walk away from something like that.

  Considine downed his glass of whisky and stood up, just a suggestion of unsteadiness in his movements. His face was dangerous as he looked around the room. Macklin’s men were in here drinking, talking loudly about what they were going to do to Nash.

  “Shut up!” Considine yelled abruptly and silence dropped over the room like a heavy blanket. Apprehensive eyes stared towards the gunfighter as he came slowly down the room, hand on his gun butt, face mean and deadly. Hardly a man breathed or blinked an eye, afraid of drawing his attention. Considine stopped in the center of the room and looked at Macklin and his men. “You hombres are gettin’ Dutch courage, swillin’ all that rotgut whisky, talkin’ loud about what you’re gonna do to Nash. Aaah! You won’t do nothin’. Nothin’! Come sundown you’ll tuck your tails up between your legs and slink outa this town like the cur dogs you are!”

  He looked around the trail men with challenging, blazing eyes. They said nothing. Macklin moved uneasily but he, too, was silent. Considine curled a lip at them.

  “The hell with you! You’re not worth worryin’ about. But you can rest easy. You won’t have to tangle with Nash. For why? ’Cause I’m gonna take care of him. He put the clock on me, too, you know. Me! Considine! Fastest gun ever to walk the West! Well, we’ll see come sundown, whether I take any notice of Sheriff Clay Nash or not. We’ll see then.”

  He turned and moved straight for the batwings, men hurriedly moving out of his way, every eye in the big room watching him go. When the batwings slapped shut behind him, there was a collective release of held breaths.

  “I’m sure glad my name ain’t Nash!” Macklin grated and someone guffawed nervously, breaking the tension in the room. The men all started talking at once and Cavendish, the owner, smirked smugly down at the far end of the bar.

  Considine made his way across the plaza, his walk showing just a suggestion of unsteadiness. He came to the Wells Fargo depot, straight-armed the doors open, and strode to the counter, where the clerk looked up apprehensively.

  “Get me the agent,” Considine ordered. “Get him in here, pronto!”

  “Yes sir!” the clerk said, jumping up and hurrying out back to knock on the door of Brewster’s office.

  Considine waited, thumbs hooked into his gunbelt. He would soon have this decided, he reckoned. One way or the other.

  ~*~

  Clay Nash waited patiently in the livery while the attendant saddled his horse for him and brought it down the long aisle. Nash put his rifle in the saddle scabbard and swung up into leather.

  “Something wrong?” he asked the liveryman who seemed on the verge of saying something.

  “Well ... maybe I was just wonderin’ ... You goin’ ridin’, and leavin’ them trail men unattended in the cells, is all.”

  Nash looked at him soberly. “You want to go over and keep an eye on ’em till I get back?”

  “Eh? Well, I am kind of busy, but okay, if that’s what you really want, Mr. Nash.”

  Nash smiled faintly and shook his head. He took the cell keys out of his shirt pocket and showed them to the liveryman.

  “Macklin and his men can bust into the law office if they want, even get into the cell-block. But they can’t get them cell doors open without these, unless they use dynamite. And they would kill Red and Buck if they did that.”

  The man grinned. “Might’ve knowed you’d have figured it out.”

  “But you could keep a check on ’em till I get back just the same,” Nash said. “Won’t be long.”

  “Sure, sheriff. Be glad to.”

  Nash nodded and rode out. He turned down the first side street and when he passed the edge of town he lifted the horse to a gallop. The breeze cooled the sweat on his face and body as he made for the first line of hills.

  When he came to high ground, he dismounted, leaving the horse with trailing reins while he walked over to a huge needle boulder. He studied it for awhile then climbed it, slowly and carefully, for the footholds were precarious. He
made it to the top and clung there with one hand as he shaded his eyes with his free hand and turned his head slowly in a one hundred and eighty degree arc, from left to right.

  He looked out over the flats beyond the high ground and his gaze settled on a smudge in the distance, somewhere below the lip of a large saucer-like depression. Dust. A lot of dust. He stayed atop the needle boulder for the best part of half an hour before he was sure. Then, mouth pulled into a tight line, he began the descent. He dusted off his hands at the bottom, walked slowly to his horse and swung up into the saddle. Looking thoughtful, he rode back towards Socorro at a fast clip and took the horse back to the livery stables.

  “Them prisoners are still safe and sound in the cells, sheriff,” the liveryman told him. “I checked twice. Ain’t been no one near the office, except Brewster from Wells Fargo, but he only stuck his head in and went out again.”

  “Thanks,” Nash said a little absently, took his Winchester from the saddle scabbard and walked slowly out through the doorway.

  Back at the law office, he found Brewster waiting impatiently for him, his face strained and nervous.

  “Where the hell you been?” the agent demanded.

  Nash looked at him, placed his rifle on the desk and sat down, taking out tobacco sack and papers and beginning to build a cigarette.

  “Ridin’. What’s your problem?”

  “I’ll tell you what my problem is, all right!” snapped Brewster, leaning down to glare at Nash. “I just had Considine over at the depot, puttin’ me through my paces, that’s what’s the matter!”

  Nash paused in rolling the cigarette, looked at Brewster quizzically. “Puttin’ you through what paces?”

  “Askin’ questions about you, Nash. And he wanted answers, or else! Scared the hell out of me!”

  “What kind of questions?” Nash asked quietly, tensed.

  “He wanted to know what I knew about you. How long you’d worked for Wells Fargo; what kind of record you had; what was the story on your gun speed, and so on.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “What could I tell him? Only what I knew. You were said to be Hume’s top operative. You had the best record for bustin’ up outlaws you went after; you’re supposed to be a crack shot and faster’n a strikin’ rattler on the draw ... ”

  Nash snapped a vesta into flame with his thumbnail, touched the fire to his cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. “How’d he react to that?”

  “Damned if I know. Not a muscle changed on his face. He just kept starin’ at me with them gun barrel eyes and sayin’, ‘What else? What else?’ until there just wasn’t no more to tell him. Then he turned and walked out.” Brewster released a heavy sigh, dabbed at sweat on his forehead and face. “He never threatened me. Just asked his questions and kept lookin’ at me, one hand on his gun butt. He didn’t need to say anythin’! I knew he’d ventilate my brisket if I tried to tell him any lies. But I made out you was half-brother to greased-lightning, so he might think twice about comin’ after you, if that’s what he had in mind.”

  Nash swore viciously. Startled, Brewster stepped back.

  “What the hell? I was tryin’ to do you a favor!”

  Nash stared at him a long minute, then sighed and nodded tightly. “Yeah, I guess you were. But all you did was make sure he will come after me.”

  “What?” Brewster was genuinely shocked.

  “Sure. The faster he thinks I am, the more of a threat I am to his reputation, so he’ll have to try to down me.”

  “Aw, hell, Nash! I never meant it that way!”

  Nash nodded, lifting a placating hand. “Can’t be helped, it’s the way his mind works, is all.”

  “I’m sure sorry about that,” the agent said sincerely. “And I got some more bad news for you ...”

  Nash waited, smoking silently.

  “Macklin’s bunch is still in the Hangtree. I just heard that some of his boys’ve made bookings with a few of the saloon gals ... for tonight.”

  “Looks like they don’t aim to move out come sundown,” Nash said thoughtfully.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah. And there’s another problem. I’ve just been out to those needle rocks and climbed to the top. Another trail herd is on its way in. It’ll be here well before sundown.”

  “Hell almighty ... that’ll be Lint Regan! Man, him and Macklin’s bunch together!” Brewster whistled. “This town’s on a short fuse, Nash.”

  “And it’s likely gonna take more than me to put it out,” Nash agreed, standing slowly. “Brewster, can you go around and see the business folks and anyone else you meet on the street and ask ’em to come to the rear of the Well Fargo depot in about half an hour?”

  “Sure, I can do that, but ... ”

  “You just get ’em there. I’ll do the rest.”

  “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s it. There’s only one alternative but I want to leave that till last. The very last.”

  Puzzled, but getting no further explanation from Nash, Brewster hurried out of the law office.

  ~*~

  The townsmen packed into the rear of the Wells Fargo depot and overflowed from Brewster’s office out onto the loading platforms. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, mainly looking worried, wondering why Nash had called them here.

  He told them without any preamble.

  “Signs are that Macklin, and his crew aim to stay on in Socorro past sundown. From what I hear. Considine’s gettin’ meaner all the time and I guess he won’t want to move on, either. To make it really interestin’, Regan’s trail herd’s comin’ in and he’ll be here before sundown too.”

  There were alarmed murmurings at this news.

  “Hell almighty!” Huxley, the liveryman, exclaimed. “We’ll have two lots of trail men cuttin’ loose! Is that what you’re sayin’, sheriff?”

  “Regan’s worse than Macklin!” another man said. “They’ll take this town apart!”

  “You’ll have to stop Regan from comin’ in, sheriff!”

  “Yeah, that’s it! Make him stay out till the mornin’!”

  Others took up the cry, figuring this was a good suggestion. Nash let them have their say, get it out of their systems, then held up his hands and the noise gradually died away and all attention was focused on him again.

  “Won’t work,” Nash told them. “Macklin’s likely already sent a rider out to tell Regan how things are here. Nothing’ll stop him and his crew from comin’ in. They’ll behave and just get quietly drunk till about sundown, I reckon. Then Macklin’ll dig his heels in, refuse to pull out, and that’s when I’m going to need you fellers.”

  He saw the tension wash through them like a live thing; a wave that straightened out faces, stiffened backs and shoulders, brought frowns to foreheads and narrowed eyes.

  “What does ‘need us’ mean, Nash?” asked someone. Nash thought it was one of the storekeepers, but couldn’t be sure.

  “Plain enough, isn’t it?” snapped Brewster. “Nash is one man. He can’t hope to handle two trail-crews on the loose. He’s gonna need help. And we’ve got to give it to him!”

  “I’m no badge-toter!” a man yelled and others took up the cry.

  “Hell, man, I got a wife and four kids, not to mention a poorly mother!”

  “My old lady wouldn’t turn me loose to do it, anyway!”

  “I’m no fighter. Ain’t had a brawl since school days!”

  “Gimme a bag of sugar and I can tell you right off how many pound-packs you’ll get out of it, but shove a gun in my hand and I’m havin’ trouble makin’ sure which end is which.”

  And so it went on. Excuses, varied and endless, most of them valid. Nash let them have their say once again and when the voices started to slow down, he held up his hands until he had some semblance of order again. He raked the group of townsmen with hard eyes and flicked the badge on his vest.

  “You all know why I took this badge, and that it’s only temporary. Fr
om what I gather, if I hadn’t killed Enderby, the town would have been in the same sort of situation anyway, and there would’ve been nothing you could have done about it. Now, I’m offering you a chance to do something to prevent this town exploding. The fuse is burning and Regan and Macklin are holding the dynamite. It’s your town. You’re gonna have to live here long after I’ve moved on. You can’t just sit back and wait for the U.S. Marshal to come and clean it up. He’ll only be one man, too! He’ll have to ask you for help and he’ll want to get it ... like I do.” He paused and flicked his gaze briefly to each and every man present. “I’ve got the added hazard of Considine. I hear he’s been tellin’ Macklin, more or less, that he’s gonna take care of me. Well, maybe he is. I figure to handle that chore myself; it’s a personal thing. But the trail herders concern the whole town, so you’ll have to give me some backing.”

  “Sure, that’s right,” Brewster said, stepping out in front and turning to face the men. “It’s our town. Our property and our families are gonna be in danger. Nash’s got every right to ask for our help. And he’s sure got mine!”

  “Me, too,” Huxley said, stepping up beside Brewster. “Come on, you hombres. Let’s back Nash and show these Texans once and for all that we aim to keep an orderly town!” There was a murmuring and some discussion and two more men stepped hesitantly forward. A fifth started to come out but when he saw no one else was following, he moved back into the crowd, looking shamefaced.

  Nash and the others waited but, though there was a lot of shuffling of boots, no one else made a move to volunteer. The crowd couldn’t meet Nash’s gaze now.

  “Is this all?” Nash asked quietly, gesturing to the four men beside him. “Is this all who care for the town and their families’ safety?”

  Some men looked down at their boots and moved uneasily. Others started making their excuses. This time, Nash didn’t let them have their say.