Clay Nash 5

by Brett Waring

  “Damn it, that’s not the way I want it to be, Clay!”

  “No? Well, we’ll see. What did you have figured for my cover?”

  Hume said, deadpan. “You’re to be roustabout at the relay station.”

  Nash began to grin. “You old son of a bitch! All that stuff about Mary bein’ low priority when you had it fixed for me to be working right alongside her!”

  Hume kept his face impassive. “I told you what I was ordered to tell you. S’pose we meet downstairs for supper and talk about the rest of it then?”

  “Suits me. Which end am I s’posed to arrive from? Here or Shiloh?”

  “Shiloh. Drop down to the south and enter the Black Hills around Wild Horse Falls, make your way uptrail to Shiloh and spend a day or so in town, feeling folk out, see what they think, listen to their theories. Might be something we’ve missed that you’ll pick up, not wearing a badge. Could be helpful to you before you move on out to the relay station.”

  Clay Nash looked at his boss steadily. “Could bring the enemy stompin’ all over me before I even clear the town limits, too!”

  Hume met and held his gaze, nodded slightly.

  “That’s part of the idea,” he said flatly.

  Two – Shiloh

  Nash figured he might as well set the wheels in motion early if he was going to have to deliberately stick his neck out. So when he rode his palomino into Wild Horse Falls, a mean, tiny settlement peopled mainly by shadowy men who came and went silently on the edge of the Hills, he ambled into the lone saloon that was also the store and talked a lot of trail gossip with the taciturn but attentive bar keep. Laced in amongst the trail talk, he managed to drop a few facts that might be of interest to any of the quiet drinkers spread around the edges of the big room, watching him closely without seeming to, seeing if there was a smell of lawman about him.

  He dropped his real name, figuring it was the best way to operate, for it was unlikely anyone would know him in this neck of the woods. It was the first time he had been in the Dakotas. According to the way he told it, he had held a variety of jobs, ranging from trail cook, through top hand on a longhorn ranch in the Panhandle to deputy sheriff in Wichita Falls. He figured this last might help dispel any suspicions they might hold of him being an undercover lawman. It was amazing how men on the dodge get a hunch about an undercover man that was so accurate it could cost him his life.

  “’Course I might have a harder job now if I was to apply for a deputy’s star,” he added to the barkeep, but loud enough for the rest of the room to hear. He looked around somewhat guiltily. “Law might not want me workin’ for ’em now ...” He laughed shortly. “Leastways, they might ‘want’ me, but not to pin a star on my shirt, if you know what I mean!”

  He laughed loudly and the barman merely looked at him with his blank eyes and went on polishing glasses. Nash sighed and drained his glass, pushing it across the counter.

  “Well, I better be on the trail to Shiloh. Sooner I get out to this new relay station and start earnin’ some dinero the better, I reckon. Obliged for the hospitality, mister. Adios.”

  No one spoke as he moved out of the big room but every eye there followed him as far as the batwings. Wondering if the seeds he had dropped would bear any fruit, Nash mounted his horse and rode up the steep trail into the hills, along the road to Shiloh.

  He was almost disappointed that no one tried to drygulch him or waylay him. It looked like his carefully rehearsed monologue in the bar at Wild Horse Falls had been to no purpose. But that was the way it went: some you won, some you lost. It hadn’t done any harm, anyway. Word would eventually get around that another roustabout was on his way up to the relay station and this would tell anyone who was interested that Wells Fargo had no intention of closing down the stage line to Deadwood yet a while.

  Shiloh was a bustling place, with several streets lined with business houses, plenty of permanent dwellings and a population that fluctuated between a thousand and two thousand depending on the season. For the seasons were more important back here in the Black Hills, this far north. The fall was like a Texas winter and the spring like a Texas fall. The northern summer could be hot, but not for long, and many of the industries operated according to the weather.

  The lumbermills closed down completely in the winter, for instance, and most of the men the industry had employed moved south, looking for jobs to see them through the cold months. They came drifting back in the spring and flocked in when the summer came and the mills worked night and day to fill orders, and to stockpile milled timber to see them through the cold season. The cattle industry up here was affected by the seasons, too, and so would the stage line business, he figured. Though the engineers termed the Deadwood Run an ‘all-weather’ road, it really wasn’t that at all. Not the way the northern blizzards blew and piled up snow seven feet deep overnight. A railroad might manage it with some of the newer-type snow plows, but no stagecoach would get through drifts like that and, if caught out on the trail, everyone, driver, guard, passengers and team, would freeze to death.

  And that was another reason Wells Fargo wanted this deal finalized as quickly as possible. They needed to show at least the glimmerings of a profit before the winter set in and closed down the line until the spring. If they didn’t, the shareholders would be clamoring and likely they would never reopen.

  Nash wondered if whoever was behind the trouble knew this. He would have to be on the inside, or have access to inside information, but it was something to think about, he figured.

  Even though it was early summer, Nash still felt cold enough to wear a corduroy jerkin when he rode down the Main Street of Shiloh. He had on buckskin gloves and last night up in the mountains had slept on a bed of hot coals covered with a few inches of earth and pine needles, with his blanket, and his horse’s piled on top of him. He was a desert man, himself, liked the dry heat of the Llano Estacado down in Texas. He enjoyed the greenery of the mountains and the taste of the thin air, clean and pine-scented, but he was a man who liked to ride in his shirtsleeves and sleep on top of his blankets and look at the stars in a summer sky. He didn’t like snow or winds that froze a man’s bone marrow. It tended to make him irritable and that was the way he was feeling when he stopped the palomino outside the Shiloh Special and dismounted, looping the reins over the hitch rail.

  He thumbed his hat to the back of his head, unbuttoned his jerkin front, and went in through the batwings, pulling off his buckskin gloves. He worked them under his trousers belt as he moved through the crowded room towards the bar. His foot was stomped on three times and he caught a few elbows in the ribs as he shoved his way through. A man, passing drinks back to a pard at a table, spilled beer on the rim of Nash’s hat and it ran down to splash down his back. The noise was filling his head as, tight-lipped, he jostled his way to the counter and tried to catch the attention of one of the busy barkeeps. It was just on sundown and men were crowding in for the night. He saw a small stage with lanterns behind tin reflectors in one corner. A painted sign to one side announced, ‘Lily La Rue and her Parisian Belles, Dancers of the Famous French Can-Can.’ No wonder the bar was crowded, he figured, if they danced the genuine French version.

  “Gimme a whisky, barkeep!” he bawled at a harassed man as he caught his eye. The man nodded that he had heard but it was a full five minutes before he came and set a brimming shot glass down on the bar in front of Nash.

  The Wells Fargo man paid and tossed it down, smacking his lips and, as he set the glass down, opened his mouth to say he would have the same again, but the ’keep had gone and was serving someone else.

  The next moment, Nash staggered as a heavy shoulder smashed into the middle of his back and sent him crashing into the man beside him at the bar. This man swore as the impact spilled his drink and he, in turn, knocked into the man beside him. Nash grabbed at the zinc edge of the bar. and turned angrily to see who had forced his way in so roughly.

  He stared into the bleak, gun barrel eyes of a man as tall
as himself and who seemed as wide as a barn door. He had a heavy black beard and wore a sweat-stained flannel shirt, open halfway to his waist, showing a hairy chest caked with dirt. The man was gun hung and looked belligerently at Nash.

  “You want somethin’, friend?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Nash snapped. “I want an apology from you for nearly knockin’ me off my feet.”

  The big man stared. “Could be I’ll finish the job and knock you clear off your feet,” he snarled.

  Nash stiffened, a sixth sense warning him that this was no mere barroom altercation. Men moved back swiftly and he had the distinct feeling that he had been set-up for this. He turned and grabbed the man beside him.

  “What’s the big rooster’s name?” he asked swiftly and the man who had been ready to cuss him out earlier for knocking his arm while he had been drinking, paled and shook his head. Nash tightened his grip and shook the man savagely. “C’mon! D’you know him?”

  The man shook his head vigorously. “No! He’s—he’s a stranger! Don’t try to pull me into this, mister! You’re a goddamn stranger, too!”

  Nash let the man go, turning back to the huge man with the beard. He was smiling faintly now.

  “You’re no fool, Nash, I’ll give you that!” the big man rumbled.

  Nash nodded slowly. It seemed his apparent loose talk in the saloon at Wild Horse Falls had borne fruit after all. They hadn’t tried for him along the trail, but they had a man waiting for him here. And he was a stranger to Shiloh.

  “I guess you got the idea of givin’ me some argument about takin’ on the roustabout’s job at the Wells Fargo relay station, huh?” Nash asked quietly.

  The big man raised his thick eyebrows, looking surprised. “Me? Hell, no, man. You can work wherever you want. Long as you’re able to work, that is. Name’s Slade, should anyone ask.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “You’ll be lucky!” rumbled Slade. “Now, let’s get down to business. You want an apology from me which you ain’t gonna get. Let’s take it from there, huh? What you aim to do about it, Nash?”

  That threw the ball back to the Wells Fargo man and he pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “How about this?” he said suddenly.

  He stepped in close, grabbed the front of Slade’s open shirt and snapped his knee up into the big man’s groin. Slade’s ugly face went gray and contorted with sudden, wrenching agony as he gagged and half-doubled over. Nash changed his grip swiftly, knocking off Slade’s hat with one hand, twisting the fingers of his other hand in the man’s hair. He rammed Slade’s face against the edge of the bar, pulled his head back, seeing the split skin across the forehead, and slammed it down again. He released his hold and Slade slid to his knees, dazed but not out to it. And not out of the fight, either.

  It must have cost him a lot of pain, but he twisted, wrapped his great arms about Nash’s legs and heaved upright with a snarling roar, throwing the startled Nash clear across the counter. The Wells Fargo man sailed over the heads of two frantically ducking barkeeps and smashed into the shelves of bottles and glasses. Stunned, cut by broken glass, he fell heavily to the floor and splintered wood and glass rained down on him. Slade hung onto the bar, his legs still rubbery, face strained with the effort he had just made.

  The barkeeps ran from behind the counter as Nash slowly struggled up, shaking his head, blood on his cheek and a rip in his corduroy jerkin. He thrust upright and heaved a splintered shelf from him, climbing slowly to his feet. He half-turned and caught a violent movement out of the corner of his eye. He ducked instinctively and a whisky bottle shattered against the wall, spraying him with liquid and shards of glass. Slade was reaching for another bottle on the counter when Nash placed one hand on the edge of the bar nearest him and vaulted over, swinging his legs up and driving both boots into Slade’s battered face.

  The man staggered backwards, arms flailing to help keep his balance and Nash landed awkwardly on the room side of the counter. He got his feet under him immediately and launched himself headlong at the big man. His arms went around Slade’s hips and he drove the top of his head into the man’s belly. They both went down with a crash that set the walls trembling. The crowd scattered and tables and chairs overturned. Nash started to heave upright but Slade doubled his legs and got his boots against the Wells Fargo man’s chest. He snapped his legs straight and Nash was flung back against the bar, the zinc edge biting across his kidneys and driving the breath from him.

  Slade got to his feet awkwardly, one hand groping out to reach for Nash. The Wells Fargo man watched through a red haze, lifted a boot and, using the bar edge as a pivot, drove it forward at Slade’s face. The big man ducked but he caught the blow on the side of the head and fell back. Nash lost his balance and they both strained to be first on their feet, but it was a dead heat and they staggered upright together, rushing at each other, fists hammering. Slade’s superior weight stopped Nash dead in his tracks at first and then forced the Wells Fargo man to back-up, a step at a time, ducking and weaving as the big fists whistled past his face. But one caught him in the ribs and it felt like a kick from a wild stallion. Nash gagged and his left knee buckled as his arm instinctively hugged his side.

  Slade slammed a blow at his head and, though Nash turned his face away, it grazed his jaw and still had enough power to send him staggering ten feet across the room. Slade stalked after him, obviously still feeling the effects of that first up-driving knee of Nash’s but driven on by the memory of it. His face was murderous.

  Nash didn’t aim to be kicked to death or beaten to a pulp by those knotted fists. Although he had his balance, he made out that he was still fighting for it and stumbled towards a chair at a nearby table that so far had remained upright. Slade changed direction and cut in, fists cocked, ready to slug away. Nash snatched up the chair and caught Slade on the upswing, the leg rising and shattering as his fists smashed into it. Slade roared with pain as the wood splintered under his knuckles. Nash lifted the chair all the way up and brought it down in a heavy swing at Slade’s head. The big man had enough sense left to duck and hunch up and it was one beefy shoulder that took the force of the chair. The wood smashed and the impact drove him to one knee. That was fine with Nash. He snapped a knee up into Slade’s face, grabbed the man’s hair, brought his head down as he lifted his knee again. He felt the big nose pulp and there was suddenly a lot of weight on the hand holding the hair. Slade was hurt badly this time and Nash figured if he wanted to walk away from this at all, now was the time to finish it.

  Then he was forced to make a sudden leap backwards as Slade, surprising him, grabbed at his legs, even though half out to it: the instinctive counter of a born fighter. Nash just managed to avoid the grasping fingers and Slade fell forward, hands going out to stop from falling all the way to the floor. The Wells Fargo man drove a boot against the side of his head and Slade rolled, his face raw flesh and bloody, eyes puffy so that he must have had difficulty in seeing. Nash looked around swiftly for some weapon to use on the man, knowing he would only break his hands trying to knock him out that way. He ended up dragging his Peacemaker from its holster and reversing his hold on it. But there was no need to club at Slade’s bloody head.

  The man was crawling painfully on all fours towards the batwings. He said nothing, only sobbed wetly, snorting through his smashed nose, groping his way along the floor and under the batwings, through the legs of the crowd that had gathered on the boardwalk and out into the street.

  Nash stood on shaking legs, the gun still half-raised, not really having the energy or inclination to go after Slade. He holstered his six-gun and staggered back in a weaving motion towards the counter. He gripped the edge and a barkeep, white-faced, set up a shot glass of whisky without having to be asked. Nash spilled half of it getting it to his mouth and winced as the raw spirits stung his split lips. He downed it, nodded his thanks to the barkeep and indicated that he should refill the glass. The man did so and Nash tossed it back and started to fe
el better, the warmth of the drinks spreading through his aching body. He grimaced as pain caught him in the left side where he had taken that brutal blow in the ribs, figuring he would be lucky if they weren’t cracked.

  The room was noisy as the men picked up overturned tables and chairs and talked amongst themselves about the fight. One of the barkeeps was straightening up the shelves and smashed liquor bottles. The other came to stand in front of Nash and looked at him nervously.

  “Someone's gotta pay for that spoilt liquor, mister,” he said a mite hesitantly.

  Nash looked at him with his one good eye; the other was red and swelling rapidly. “You want to try and take it out of my hide?” he panted.

  The barkeep started to say something, then shook his head abruptly, sighing resignedly. “Did I hear you say you’re gonna work at the Wells Fargo relay station?” he asked finally.

  Nash nodded, tensed.

  “You know they call it the Deadman’s Run?”

  “So they tell me.”

  “Lot of men have died and others’ve been beaten half to death by fellers like that Slade hombre you just beat. I never seen anythin’ like it.” He added: “Slade’s real mean.”

  Nash frowned. “Thought he was a stranger in town?”

  “Aw, he’s been in once or twice. Fact he was with the bunch that worked over the first lot of Wells Fargo engineers. I’ve seen him fight before. You done the right thing in gettin’ in those kicks to the crotch early. He’s a stomper. But if I was you, I wouldn’t walk the dark side of the street.”

  “Well, they warned me at the Wells Fargo hiring depot that I might run into trouble. Guess I picked it right when I figured Slade to be on my trail. He ever been in here alone before?”

  The barkeep pursed his lips, shook his head. “Nope, first time, I reckon. But then, you’re only one man. Guess they figured he could take care of you by himself. Man, did they make a mistake!”

  Nash gave him a crooked grin and pushed back from the bar, wincing again. “Some place I can wash-up?”