by Brett Waring
It so happened that on this drive he had picked up the worst bunch of hardcases he had ever hazed along the old Coronado Trail. It had suited him at the time and it suited him now as he let them drift into Socorro one by one. He knew this town could never handle men such as these. There was not even a sense of comradeship among them. He had seen that plainly on the trail up from Texas. If a man fell from his horse, no one went back to see if he was hurt, or how badly. They would not queue for grub until the cook kicked up such a fuss about the chuck wagon being mobbed, that Regan had to stand by with a shotgun and make them stand in line. If a man didn’t want to do a chore, he said so. Only once, mind you. Regan saw he didn’t refuse again; or that he wasn’t able to because of a broken jaw.
And that was the secret of handling men like these; you just had to be tougher than the toughest of them. And Regan didn’t figure anyone in Socorro was that good, not even this gunfighter Considine, that Macklin had spoken of. No, he would let his crew take the town apart and Clay Nash along with it.
He would enjoy standing on the sidelines and watching it happen, or maybe he would join in. He had no love for Socorro.
So thought Regan as he rode into town, alone, looking at the sun as it slanted towards the western hills. Sundown in Socorro would be one to remember this day, he figured.
“Regan?”
The trail-boss reined in fast, half-hipping in the saddle, hand sweeping towards his gun butt. But he froze, eyes narrowing as he looked down at the tall man who stepped out of the shadows of the law office awning. There was a Colt in Nash’s hand and the westering sun glinted off the star on his vest.
“I’m Regan. And you’re Nash, I’d guess.”
“You’d be right. You’ve got until sundown to get your men out of town and to keep ’em out.”
Regan’s chimpanzee face stiffened. “Don’t beat about the brush, do you, Nash?”
“Sundown,” Nash repeated, his eyes cold and dangerous. He holstered his Peacemaker but didn’t take his gaze from the trail-boss’ features. “You can move your herd out come morning.”
“Kind of you!”
Nash shook his head. “Nope. Macklin’ll be shiftin’ his beeves tonight. Give him a chance to get a few miles ahead of you before you move.”
A faint smile touched Regan’s thick lips. “Does Mack know?”
“He knows. He figures it won’t happen, but he’s wrong.”
“You got plenty of gall, I’ll say that for you, Nash.”
“Funny ... someone else told me the same thing not long ago. Thing is, Regan, I aim to back it up. Tell your men that.”
“Damn well tell ’em yourself!” Regan growled and wrenched his mount’s head around, heading out across the plaza towards the Hangtree Saloon.
Nash watched him go, then turned and walked along the boards to the entrance of the Buckskin Bar. He paused at the batwings, looking inside. One of the barkeeps was going round lighting the wall lamps; it was getting gloomy inside. The room was getting crowded and he could see the trail men gathering in a tight knot at the far end of the bar. Townsmen sat around nervously drinking or playing cards. Saloon girls draped themselves invitingly near the cowmen. The tinny piano was silent, but a glowing cigar butt rested on the end of the key-board and there was a half-finished glass of beer on the top. Nash knew that the pianist was just taking a short break. Soon the music would start and he could see Albany talking earnestly with his housemen. They were preparing for a wild evening. No one looked as if they intended to move out of town by sundown.
It was as he figured. He would tell Brewster and Huxley to forget about backing him. No point in the two townsmen getting themselves hurt, or maybe killed, going up against the determined trail men. He would have to find some way of handling things himself.
Nash turned away from the batwings and stopped dead as he was confronted by two rangy, bearded and sweat-stained trail men, standing only a couple of feet from him. He looked at them warily.
“You’re the law here, huh?” the tallest said, a black haired man with one mutilated ear.
“I’m the law,” Nash agreed quietly.
“Nah. You’re wrong,” said the second man. He was muscular and blond-haired, with very pale eyes that had the suggestion of a crazy glint in them. “You ain’t the law, mister. You’re the hombre figures he’s gonna stop us havin’ fun tonight. But you ain’t.”
Nash knew he was in trouble and he stepped back, into and through the batwings, cursing, for he knew this was what they wanted, to get him into the big barroom where the rest of the trail men were. He heard the room fall silent, then the shuffle of boots and his hand drove down for his gun butt. The blond man slammed a shoulder into him and sent him staggering. Nash managed to get his gun free of leather, but he was falling across a table. He triggered by reflex action, the bullet blasted into the ceiling and men scattered. But the black-haired man picked up a chair and flung it into Nash’s chest as he started to come upright. The sheriff was knocked to the floor, overturning two more chairs.
The trail men from the bar had surged forward by now and they hurled aside the overturned furniture to get at Nash. A boot stomped on his gun hand and the Peacemaker flew out of his grasp. A second boot took him on the shoulder and another skimmed across the back of his head. Nash rolled, arms coming up to protect his face and head, lashing out with his own boots. Momentarily, the group was driven back, cursing and yelling, and he surged upright, gripping a chair by the back and swinging savagely as they rushed back in.
He drove three men to the floorboards, then the chair splintered and he was left with only part of the back and one leg in his hand. He slugged with this, back-pedaling, seeing, out of the corner of his eye, townsmen running for the doors. The men were driving him deeper into the barroom and he knew they would have him surrounded in a moment.
He spun about, leaping atop a table and continuing the movement to hurl his flying body into the line of men coming in on him from behind. None of them had expected the maneuver and he took down four men in a tangled heap, striking out with fists and elbows, boots and knees as he fought up to his feet again. He was almost upright when a fist slammed down onto his neck and sent him stumbling to hands and knees. A boot drove against his ribs. He rolled, catching the boot and twisting violently, straining to get upright, retaining his hold on the man’s boot and heaving him into his pards as they surged forward. Someone kicked him in the thigh and his leg buckled. He dropped to one knee and they crowded around and hemmed him in.
A knee slammed into his forehead and lights burst in a shower behind his eyes. Fingers twisted in his hair and his head was wrenched back. He tried to dodge the down-driving fist but couldn’t turn his head far enough. The knuckles crunched against his jaw like the kick of a mule. Nash’s senses reeled and he started to sag, but the rough hands wouldn’t let him fall. In fact, he was heaved to his feet and rushed backwards to smash against the rear wall with an impact that jolted the breath from his body. He saw snarling, cursing faces as the men jostled each other in order to get a crack at him. They hated his guts. They wanted to pummel and maim and smash him into the floorboards. Likely they would kill him, but not until they’d had their fun.
He was helpless now, as two men held each arm and spread-eagled him against the wall, others standing on his boots as they hammered at his body.
There was pain and redness and a roaring in his ears. His body jolted with each savage blow. Then there was a thunderous explosion, a few moments when the whole world seemed to stand still, then he was falling forward. He thrust out his arms instinctively, felt his palms hit the floorboards, but he couldn’t support himself. His arms gave way and he sprawled on his bloody face amidst the churned-up sawdust, barely hanging on to the last shred of consciousness.
Eight – Sundown
Clay Nash awoke in the law office. The lamp on the wall above the desk was burning and he was staring straight up at it. It took him a little time to realize he was lying full length acr
oss the desk.
He blinked and frowned and started to sit up. A groan escaped his split and puffed lips and he eased his head down again.
“Just lie still, Clay,” a voice told him. “Let yourself get your bearings slowly. Everything’s all right.”
He turned his head slowly and his frown deepened when he made out the hazy form of Lynn Enderby standing beside the desk. Behind her he saw Brewster. Despite her admonition, he sat up slowly and Brewster stepped forward, took his arm, and helped him. He swung his legs over the side of the desk and sat there, waiting for the rocking room to settle down to an even keel. A spot of blood fell onto the back of his hand and he touched his nostrils, found they were still oozing a little. The girl handed him a clean piece of rag and he held it to his nostrils. He looked from the girl to Brewster.
“They wiped the Buckskin Bar with me,” Nash told them, his voice a little muffled behind the rag.
“Not quite,” Brewster told him. “You accounted for yourself mighty well. Just too many of ’em for you to handle. But they might’ve wiped the floor with you if we hadn’t come in when we did.”
Nash frowned again, looking at the girl. “We?”
“Sure,” Brewster said. “Me and Lynn here.”
The sheriff snapped his head around to look at the girl and winced at the pain in his neck. “You stepped into that saloon brawl?”
She smiled faintly. “Wasn’t so much a brawl as it seemed to be a massacre to us ... but, yes, I stepped in, with Mr. Brewster. We heard the gunshot and someone ran out and said Macklin’s men had started beating you up. I was at the livery but Huxley wouldn’t come down. I had my shotgun in my buckboard and I ran across to the Wells Fargo depot and told Mr. Brewster what was happening. He grabbed a gun and we—well, we just ran to the Buckskin Bar, shoved through the crowd and I guess I got a little carried away, because I fired a charge into the ceiling.”
“That soon broke things up!” Brewster added, grinning at the memory. “Fellers dropped you like a hot brandin’ iron and ran for cover. Lynn blasted a table to pieces, then I covered ’em while she reloaded and we got you out of there and across to here.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t do more damage than they already have,” the girl told him. “You must’ve put up a good fight, Clay.”
“Well, it was a losin’ battle right from the start, with so many of ’em,” Nash said. “You’re right. I’m lucky I can still walk around. My thanks to you both. Did Regan’s men come over to watch, too?”
“I guess some were there at the batwings,” the girl said.
“From what I hear, it was two of Regan’s men who started in on you,” Brewster said.
Nash arched his eyebrows, wincing. “The black-haired hombre with half an ear and the blond feller?”
“Yeah. Rocco and Whitey Dane. Mean sonuvers ... beggin’ your pardon, Lynn. They’ve been with him on other trail drives. Spoilers for trouble.”
Nash nodded slowly and suddenly saw his Peacemaker on the wash-stand. He stood up experimentally, swayed a little unsteadily, then took a tentative step forward. His legs wanted to fold up under him but he willed them to straighten and made it unsteadily across the room to the wash-stand. He picked up his Colt, leaning against the stand for support, checking it for loads and damage. Satisfied, aware that the others were watching him closely, he holstered the weapon. Then he saw his battered hat on the back of a chair, made his way there, a little more steadily now, and jammed the hat onto his head.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” asked Lynn Enderby, her voice incredulous.
Nash looked at her, then at Brewster. “I’m goin’ to arrest Rocco and Dane.”
“I don’t believe it!” Lynn gasped. “I don’t believe what my ears tell me you just said, Clay Nash!”
“You’d better,” Nash said, hitching up his gunbelt, flexing stiff fingers. “Because that’s what I aim to do.”
“Hell, Nash, that’s plumb loco!” Brewster said. “For one thing you couldn’t fight a week-old baby and come out the winner. For another, you’d be walkin’ right into the Hangtree Bar when it’s like a nest of rattlers! Regan himself’s in there, with all his men!”
“As long as Rocco and Dane are there, that’s where I’m goin’.”
“You must want to die!” the girl breathed.
“No. But if I don’t show them now, right now, that I aim to ramrod the law here, it’ll be too late. In another hour, the sun’ll be down and they’ll really cut loose. I’ve got to show ’em I’m tougher than them and it has to be right away, Lynn. And alone.”
The girl’s mouth dropped open as she looked towards Brewster, who was frowning slightly. “Mr. Brewster, don’t tell me you go along with this foolishness!”
Brewster glanced up, sighed. “Lynn, I can see Clay’s point. It might seem loco, but if he don’t show up and at least try to bring in Rocco and Dane, we’ll have those trail men crawlin’ all over the town, tearin’ it apart.”
She shook her head slowly, glancing from one man to the other. “Then you have to go with him!”
“No. Like he said, he has to do it alone. These curly wolves have got no respect for anyone, but nearest they come to it is admiring a feller with some iron in his backbone.”
“This isn’t a demonstration of ‘guts’!” Lynn snapped. “It’s crass stupidity!”
“But the only way,” Nash told her quietly. He glanced at the Wells Fargo agent. “You might like to stand at the batwings with Lynn’s shotgun ... ”
“Sure. Be a pleasure.” Brewster turned to the girl and picked up her shotgun. “You don’t mind lendin’ it for a good cause, do you?”
She stared at him, flicked her eyes towards Nash, sighed heavily and made a helpless gesture as she shook her head. “What can I say? Go ahead. I’ll wait here, though God knows I feel I should be waiting at the undertaker’s!”
Nash smiled faintly, straightened his hat and glanced at Brewster. The agent was ready and together they went out into the darkened street. The girl sagged down into the chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Nash smashed open the batwings with a blow from his left arm and the doors slapped against the saloon walls, bringing a sudden silence to the crowded, smoke-hazed barroom. His eyes moved around the room and he saw surprise on the faces of the trail men and the few townsmen who were still present. It lacked an hour to sundown now, and most of the town’s family men were back home with doors locked and loved ones nearby.
Nash saw Regan standing at the bar, a shot glass halfway to his mouth. There was a look of surprise on the man’s face A few feet along the bar, to his left, was the black-haired man, Rocco. Three men down from Regan’s right was Whitey Dane. Nash swore silently; he would have preferred the men to be closer together, but, he’d play the hand the way the cards were dealt.
Men made way for him as he walked towards the bar. His face was raw and bruised from his recent battering and his legs were rubbery. He knew these men could see he was in no condition for another brawl. So, naturally, they would resist.
He hoped they would. After what he had taken at their hands, he didn’t want them to come quietly. Just taking them in and locking them up wouldn’t be enough; neither for him nor the trail men. He wanted—needed—violence now to show them that they were up against the toughest lawman they had ever struck and were ever likely to strike.
So Nash didn’t bother with diplomacy. He walked right up to Regan and stood facing the lanky trail-boss.
“You and your men get out of the way, Regan. Except for Rocco and Dane.”
Regan stiffened at mention of his men by name. He frowned. The trail men glanced at him, then pushed off the bar threateningly. Nash dropped a hand to his gun butt, raked them all with his icy stare.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said very quietly. “Gimme trouble. Come on! That’s all I want now! I’ve done enough pussyfootin’ around with you snakes! Anyone’s feeling froggy, now’s the time to make your play.”
“I said move away from the bar!” he snapped.
They began to move, Regan included, slowly at first, not taking their eyes off Nash.
“Not you!” he snapped, pointing with his left hand at Whitey Dane as the man began to sidle down the bar. He snapped his head around toward Rocco. “Nor you! You hombres jumped me before and caught me off-guard. Well, I’m not off-guard now and I’m takin’ you in to lock you up. And I hope you don’t get any ideas of makin’ it hard for me!”
While he was looking at Rocco. Dane made a lunge away from the bar, throwing himself through the air, hand streaking for his gun. Nash whirled, crouching as he drew, and his gun blasted, once, twice. The bullets caught Dane in mid-air, jerking the man’s body and sending it crashing amidst tables and chairs. Men dived for cover as Nash spun back the other way and threw himself aside as Rocco’s gun blasted. The lead fanned his face and he triggered by reflex action, knowing he had missed.
Rocco hurled a chair at him and lunged for the door behind the bar where Cavendish was half-crouched, watching.
The saloonkeeper yelled at him to get away, but Rocco grabbed him by the coat front and yanked him out of the way. Rocco was just going through the doorway when Nash fired again, across the bar top.
The trail man slammed forward as the lead struck him between the shoulders, he twisted as he started to fall, bringing his gun around. Nash shot him again, heard Brewster yell. “Watch out!” from the batwings and dropped flat as lead punched into the bar.
Nash rolled out and away from the bar and saw Cavendish had made his own play, snatching a gun from under the bar as Rocco took most of the lawman’s attention. The saloonkeeper was bringing the smoking six-gun up again when Nash rolled onto his belly, brought his own gun around and slanted the barrel upwards. He fired and the bullet tore through the front of the bar, on and up through the top, blasting out a fist-sized chunk of wood. It flattened to the size of half-dollar, smashed into Cavendish just where his neck joined his shoulders, the man went down, convulsing, his head hanging by a shred, boots drumming on the floorboards.
