Clay Nash 17

by Brett Waring

  He was standing in the middle of the trail when McGinnis rode back. He had a dead man draped across his saddle.

  “Papers found near his body say his name was Danby,” the sheriff said.

  Nash took out a copy of the passenger list and nodded. “He was on it. That hombre lying there with his shirt ripped off, is Case Ritchie, a cattle buyer: knew him by sight. How about this feller, Ralls? Find him at all?”

  McGinnis shook his head. “Marks where someone went over the edge on the bend above the river but no body. Water’s flowin’ fast so I reckon if Ralls fell into that river, he’ll be miles downstream by now. We got the driver’s body.”

  Nash nodded, his face grim. He swung up into saddle and gestured to Ritchie’s body.

  “Someone bring that.”

  As he turned his dun and started to ride back along the trail to where he had left Lloyd and Cassidy, the sheriff called:

  “Hey! How about the money?”

  Nash didn’t answer as he disappeared around the bend.

  He rode fast back to the place where Lloyd now had Cassidy propped up against a rock. The man’s left arm was strapped across his bandaged chest and the ex-riverboat captain was tying a bandage around Cassidy’s head, a thick pad covering the wound.

  Lloyd stood and nodded as Nash dismounted and walked forward, his eyes on Cassidy.

  “I reckon he’ll be all right if I can get him to a proper sawbones not too long from now, Mr. Nash,” Lloyd told the Wells Fargo man. “I know it’s gettin’ dark, but I’d like permission to take him into town soon as possible. That head wound should be sutured and I figure mebbe he has a mite of concussion. He’s wanderin’ an’ his eyes are kinda out of focus. Twice he hasn’t been able to remember his name.”

  Nash stiffened, looking sharply from Cassidy to Lloyd.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Aw, well, it’s common enough with concussion. Lapses of memory. Could last for weeks, even years.”

  Nash frowned. “But he’s already recalled what happened.”

  “Sure. Some of it, anyway. But now there’s likely a blood clot formin’ beneath that head wound and it could be pressin’ on his brain, affectin’ his memory. Come mornin’, he might not be able to recall his own name. I doubt that he’ll remember anythin’ about the hold-up.”

  “Which would be mighty convenient for him!” Nash said between gritted teeth. As Lloyd frowned at him puzzledly, he added, “There’s fifty thousand dollars missing from a secret compartment in that stagecoach. Looks to me like it busted open in the crash. Now that could mean Dooley got it, for it’s more than likely that’s what he was after all along. At the same time, there’s marks around Case Ritchie’s waist that could mean a money belt was ripped from him—and that would explain how come his shirt’s all ripped up the way it is. If that was all Dooley was after, it means whoever was left alive must’ve seen that fifty thousand in the busted-open compartment.”

  He stared coldly at Cassidy who looked back at him with glazed, expressionless eyes. Lloyd whistled softly.

  Nash thumbed back his hat. “Get him back to Spanish Creek, Lloyd. Have the sawbones look at him by all means. Preferably in Sheriff McGinnis’ cells ... I want Cassidy locked up and kept there till I get back. Savvy?”

  Three – Trackdown

  There were practically no tracks.

  Moss Dooley and his pards had done a mighty good job of covering their trail away from the site of the stagecoach wreck. Lloyd had returned to Spanish Creek with Cassidy and a message from Nash to Jim Hume, Wells Fargo’s Chief of Detectives in Tucson. The posse spent the night camped beside the trail close in against the base of Hangman’s Spur. At first light, Nash roused them out and got coffee and beans organized so that by the time the sun was fully risen, they were ready to ride.

  Only he didn’t want them to ride. He wanted them on foot, shuffling forward a few inches at a time, covering the whole area around the wreck of the stage. McGinnis and his men missed a few meager signs that Nash picked up but which told him little: one of the outlaws’ horses had a cracked shoe and it was worn thin in one part so that there was a possibility it could throw it or at least have trouble with it during the next few miles.

  There was sufficient of the curve of the hoof print to indicate a direction and it led, predictably, towards the hills.

  “Well, we know they’ll head there eventually,” Nash opined, “but the thing is which part are they going to make for? Curly, you got any ideas?”

  Curly Lipscombe ran a bandanna over his sweat-sheened scalp and looked doubtful. “Like I said, Mr. Nash, no one’s ever found Dooley’s hole-in-the-wall...”

  “I’d say by your tone, you might have an idea or two of your own about its location.”

  Curly shrugged. “Yeah, well, I know them hills pretty good, but I ain’t loco enough to go ridin’ in there alone to try to sniff out Moss Dooley’s bunch, bounty or no.” He glanced at Sheriff McGinnis. “We looked a couple times, Wes an’ me, but we had our hosses run off once and nearly got caught in a brush fire that started around our camp another. Then, when the only waterhole in a canyon we was makin’ for to camp in had a dead coyote floatin’ in it, we figured that was enough. We headed out.”

  Nash was showing sharp interest now. “Can you take me to that same place?”

  Curly nodded, but he didn’t seem any too happy about it.

  “Somethin’ I think we ought to get straight about this, Mr. Nash,” he said uncomfortably, “that’s the reward ... I take it Wells Fargo’ll be puttin’ up some kinda bounty?”

  Nash nodded. “Yeah. It could be as high as fifteen thousand but I’m not authorized to make any amounts available. Jim Hume’ll be doing that. I’ve sent for him, but it’ll be a day or two before he can get to Spanish Creek. Meantime, I’d sure as hell like to be able to hand him Moss Dooley’s bunch on a platter when he does arrive. But whatever reward is offered will go to you fellers. I’m not allowed to share in it anyway. But you are, Sheriff.”

  McGinnis nodded, looking around at his posse members. “Suits me. I don’t mind sharin’ with you hombres. But let’s not forget Lloyd. He earns a share, too.”

  The others were agreeable and Curly Lispscombe declared Nash’s word was good enough for him, so he mounted and they rode slowly back down the trail to Hangman’s Spur where the attack first started. They spent some time looking for tracks, but there was little there to help. Nash gave the nod for Curly to lead the way into the canyon country in an attempt to locate Dooley’s hole-in-the-wall.

  They rode all day, at first along twisting narrow trails that took them high up the Spur itself and then across and down to the hills. Here there was timber for a while and Nash’s hopes rose considerably when they found fresh sign that could have indicated the passage of a half-dozen riders.

  “Don’t really mean much, not in here,” Lipscombe told him slowly. “Lot of folk cut through this corner of the hills on the way up to the Flagstaff Trail. They sometimes bunch together for protection.”

  “I’m a great believer in hunches, Curly,” Nash told him. “And I’ve got a hunch that this sign was made by Moss Dooley and his gang. Let’s push on and make full use of the daylight hours.”

  They left the timber behind not long after that and rode up the middle of a narrow and shallow creek that wound its way into sandstone country. Nash saw the slopes growing steeper and steeper and soon they fell away in huge smooth slabs where the very earth itself had settled and slid down in some long-passed geological movement.

  They were heading into the canyon country and the rifles came up and out of the saddle scabbards. Men shook off the lethargy of the heat-induced slow ride. Alert eyes watched all directions. Bodies were stiffer with tension now and hardly a head was still as they constantly scanned, looking for sign of the outlaws.

  In general, this was outlaw territory. Not only Dooley used it: many other law-breakers, too, had recognized its usefulness. The rocks underfoot didn’t carry any p
ermanent tracks: or, if they did, it would take a full-blood Indian to locate them. There were numerous lost canyons and dry washes, arroyos, caves, where a man on the dodge could hide out.

  So, when the posse camped that night, it was a cold camp and they munched on stale soda dodgers, cold beans eaten straight from the can, all washed down with tepid canteen water, and only sparingly, too, for the canyon they were in right now was a dry one. Lack of water could be just as deadly as an owlhoot’s bullet in there.

  They broke camp before full daylight and when they left the canyon they came across a well-used trail that snaked off through the high-rising stone walls towards a distant glittering oval. A waterhole.

  It was still early and Nash thought he saw something moving across in front of the water. Maybe someone was camped there ...

  He left his horse with the others and went on ahead on foot, alone, despite McGinnis’ protests. Nash had his Winchester with him and there was a bullet in the chamber. All he needed to do was notch back the hammer to be ready to shoot.

  Nash could move with the ghostlike silence of the Indian and he came within yards of the waterhole, coming out above it slightly on a small broken ledge, without giving his presence away. Looking over the edge, he saw there was a lone man camped there and he was brewing coffee. The aroma made Nash’s mouth water as he stared hard at the man, watching his movements. But he didn’t recognize him.

  The Wells Fargo man silently notched back the rifle’s hammer and stepped out onto the ledge, covering the man almost directly below him.

  “Freeze, mister!”

  The man was startled but he recovered fast and threw himself backwards, reaching for his own rifle propped against his saddle. Nash didn’t want gunfire if he could help it. He dropped from the ledge, landing all asprawl on hands and knees in the sand only a yard or two from the other. The man was sweeping his rifle around, levering. Nash jarred forward in a long dive, one hand reaching for the firearm, grabbing the muzzle and twisting savagely. The man yelled as his fingers, caught between the trigger and the lever, were crushed. Nash jerked the rifle forward out of the man’s grasp, swiftly reversed it as the outlaw staggered up, holding his injured hand.

  Nash lunged up, too, and swung the rifle butt in a short arc. It caught the man on the side of the head and he went down hard, rolling, trying to get to his feet, groggy from the blow. Nash put a boot into his ribs and stomped on the hand instinctively groping for the six-gun that had fallen from his holster.

  The man lay there, semi-conscious, moaning ...

  By the time he had come round fully, McGinnis and the rest of the posse had ridden in and, grim-faced, they sat their mounts around him in a semi-circle. He gulped and rubbed at his bleeding, lop-sided face, staring up with scared eyes.

  “Brant Higgins,” McGinnis announced. “Two-bit outlaw. Steals from old ladies who live alone, or old men, if they’re far enough away from the rifle over their fireplace. Likes to beat up on the old folks. Doc once said he must’ve hated his parents. He don’t ride with Dooley, Moss wouldn’t have scum like him in his bunch.”

  Nash nodded, got a slight wink from the sheriff. He sighed. “We’re wastin’ our time, then, if he don’t know anythin’ about Moss Dooley. You want to string him up here and now? Save the County some expense ...?”

  McGinnis looked like he was thinking it over and Higgins turned gray and trembled visibly. He came forward on his knees, looking up at the sheriff.

  “Judas, Sher’f, don’t hang me! Please!”

  “Why the hell not? No one’d miss the likes of you, you ornery son of a bitch,” growled McGinnis and he started to shake out a loop in his lariat.

  Higgins threw himself backwards, an arm going across his face in fear. “No, don’t! Look, I can tell you where to find Dooley! Okay? I know where his hole-in-the-wall is! Stumbled on it one day! He’s there now. I seen him an’ his bunch ridin’ through yest’y.”

  Nash and McGinnis exchanged looks. That was the kind of thing they wanted to know.

  “You expect a favor, I s’pose, if you tell us?” McGinnis growled.

  Higgins licked his lips. “Well, yeah, Sher’f. Only fair, ain’t it?”

  The sheriff considered it and finally nodded. “Guess so. But if you give me a bum steer ...”

  “No! No, I wouldn’t, Sher’f! Honest!”

  “All right. Tell us where to find Dooley’s hole-in-the-wall and you might live a little longer,” Clay Nash said coldly.

  Shaking badly, Brant Higgins scrabbled in the dust, cleared an area free of stones and picked up a twig. He began to draw a crude map, hand trembling violently.

  It seemed that the hole-in-the-wall was no more than a couple of miles distant.

  Leaving Higgins handcuffed around a tree, the posse rode slowly on, following his directions, promising him swift retribution if he had steered them wrong.

  But Higgins had told the truth in his fear: his directions led the posse straight to the hidden canyon being used by Moss Dooley and his bunch of hard cases.

  There were six horses in the crude corral outside the log cabin built hard against the wall of the canyon, so that it could not be attacked from the rear.

  “Seems like the whole gang’s here,” McGinnis opined as they scanned the valley from the shelter of huge rocks.

  Nash nodded slowly, not liking the approaches that could be covered well by gunfire from the cabin. It could not be taken from the rear and the front and both sides had windows and loopholes. This was not going to be an easy chore ...

  But, above the cabin, on the rim, sotol brush grew thickly.

  “It’s gonna cost us,” opined Sheriff McGinnis grimly. “They can sweep the whole of the approaches.”

  “Except straight up,” Nash said and he smiled faintly as he saw the look of surprise on the sheriff’s face. Curly Lipscombe mopped at his bald scalp and pursed his leathery lips, shaking his head doubtfully.

  “Never do it, Mr. Nash. If one of them was to lean out the window and look up, you’d be swatted off there like a fly.”

  Nash looked at him soberly. “Be your job to make sure they keep their heads down.”

  “But, hell, Clay,” protested the lawman, “how you gonna get up that cliff? It’s all open to the cabin ... which is our problem.”

  Nash pointed. “See yonder? The way the canyon wall swings around in a tight arc, kind of enclosing the cabin area? Well, look carefully at that cliff face. You got to get the light right to see it, but see that deep-shadow snaking its way up? Uh-huh, that’s the one. Well, it’s a kind of natural crevice, like a chimney, running from canyon base to the top. If I can get that far, I can go up, and be protected from the cabin windows.”

  McGinnis looked dubious, “It’s mighty shallow. They might still be able to angle a couple of shots across at you.”

  “Might be,” conceded Nash. “But I’ll take the chance. Now let’s get to pouring some lead into that cabin. Once I get up top, I’ll drive ’em out and you fellers’ll have to be ready. So keep your heads down meantime ...”

  There was no time for any more protests. Nash was already checking his guns and the others followed suit. McGinnis deployed his men amongst the rocks, with two in a small clump of trees. Clay Nash knelt behind a conical rock beside McGinnis. He nodded and threw his rifle up, loosing off a fusillade of shots that raked the front of the cabin, spitting wood splinters around the window, across the barred door, kicking a couple of shingles loose.

  It was the signal. The posse all began firing, levers working fast and furiously, pouring a hail of lead into the cabin. But the walls were thick and most of the bullets thudded into the logs and their impact was absorbed harmlessly.

  After the first violent volley, the outlaws started hitting back. Guns blasted: rifles, shotguns, six-guns, and there was one singular, thunderous boom that Nash picked as a Sharps’ buffalo rifle. When a tree branch as thick as his wrist was cut in two above one of the posse men by a whistling bullet, he knew he was right. A m
an getting hit with one of those massive slugs would be blown seven ways to Sunday ...

  The posse didn’t let up. They poured a hail of bullets into the cabin, aiming at the windows and door and the loopholes, placing their lead carefully around these targets, forcing the men inside to keep their heads down.

  “We could run out of ammo at this rate!” McGinnis warned.

  But he was talking to himself: Nash was away and running, in a crouch, behind the line of rocks. Then he saw the Wells Fargo trouble-shooter drop flat, squirm between two rocks and make his way out into the open on his belly. Tall grass hid him from the cabin, though the agitation of the stalks showed that something was moving out there. Likely those inside were too busy keeping their heads down to notice.

  Nash snaked his way through the grass to the wall, cradling his rifle across his bent arms, moving on elbows and knees. No bullets cut through the stalks opening and closing above him, though the almost continual blasting of the guns sounded like a battlefield in a small war. Then he felt the change in temperature as he reached the shadow at the base of the cliff, paused, and lifted his head long enough to get his bearings.

  He was too far to the left. He moved right, faster now, and then heaved to his feet and, crouched double, ran for the natural groove in the cliff face. He was genuinely surprised when he made it without getting shot at. Seemed like he hadn’t been spotted from the cabin, which suited him fine ...

  The rifle was the problem; it was mighty awkward to carry, but he figured he would need it up on the top. He ended up pushing the barrel through his gunbelt at the back and lying the rifle along his spine. This freed his hands and he started up the groove or rocky chimney right away. Some of the sandstone crumbled away in his hands and he had a time of it finding a solid foothold at first. But he got his boot-toe into a niche and heaved up, stretching his hands far above and just managing to wrap straining fingers around a jutting outcrop. He prayed it would hold ...