Clay Nash 5

by Brett Waring

  A bullet was the only real answer to madmen like Mandrell but, thanks to the ways of a democracy, he was free to spread his dissent and his wild, radical notions and, it seemed, to make them work.

  But when he met Mandrell, Nash was surprised at the apparent sanity and sincerity of the man. He was a striking person, tall, straight, with a mane of silver-gray hair framing a tanned face that had the jutting jaw and the eagle look of the pioneers depicted in paintings as they gazed out to far horizons. Nash could see how easy it would be to follow such a man; how simple it would be to be influenced by his powerful words delivered in a deep, vibrant voice.

  He had to admit that Mandrell would make a fine figure of a man as presidential head of this country.

  His hand-grip was firm, his look direct, as he was introduced to Nash by Newman in a large brown tent set aside from the others.

  “So you’re the Wells Fargo man who’s been such a thorn in the side of my men,” Mandrell said. “Clay Nash. It’s a name I have heard before this. Your fame has spread as far as Congress, Nash. Your exploits have been discussed for, as you likely know, Wells Fargo has political affiliations, even if that’s not generally known.”

  Nash said nothing as he stood there with Newman’s pistol barrel pressed lightly into his side. His hands were tied in front of him.

  “You have seen my camp and my men. This is only one of a half-dozen such encampments spread across the northern States. No doubt you think I’m mad to attempt to build my own Republic.” He smiled warmly. “That is one of my weapons. No one takes me seriously when I suggest it. No one believes anyone would be—foolish—enough to secede from the Union. But they will take me seriously enough when I make my move on the strategic military positions up here and set up an armed buffer-State. And, of course, I have my sympathizers—no, more than that, my backers in the so-called Deep South who have never accepted Yankee rule. There are plenty of powerful factions down there, Nash, who are willing to rise up against the present government. Then, squeezed from the north and the south, the government will be forced to surrender and I will march in to take over the Capitol ... I believe I will be good for the United States. I’m not a dreamer, Nash. I’m a doer. I tried through politics and failed, thanks to the dunderheads blocking my every move. Now, once again, Congress has seen fit to blackball me, and I do not intend to wait any longer. This country needs leadership such as mine!” He paused, then added deliberately: “If you are not altogether a fool, Nash, you could be part of my new Republic.”

  Nash was surprised at that. “You offerin’ me a job?” he asked, incredulously.

  “I’m no fool, Nash, and I’m assuming that you're not, either. You came here to try to rescue the Garths. A brave thing to attempt and, some would say foolish, but I don’t see it that way. I admire your courage and tenacity. You fought it out with some of my best men and emerged the victor. I would be stupid not to try to hire such talent.”

  Nash shook his head. “Not me, Mandrell.”

  “General Mandrell, to you!” the tall man snapped, and it was the first show of real emotion Nash had seen since coming into the tent. The dark eyes sparked with a flare of anger but he controlled it well enough. “Soon, it will be President Mandrell. Now, Nash, think a little before you reject my offer out of hand. I don’t know what Wells Fargo pay you, but it can’t be much, in comparison to what I’m offering.” He gestured to Newman. “Colonel Newman there has hardly seen a gold piece since he joined my force, but he is a patient man. He is already my lieutenant; he knows that when I take over, he will be in a position of power that he could never hope to attain in any other way. Power, Nash! That’s the currency I’m offering. It’s much better than mere money. Only fools see their rewards in terms of gold. You agree?”

  Nash pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Dunno that I’ve ever had any great notions for power over my fellow man, General,” he said slowly. “What sort of position are you offerin’ me? You already said that Newman’ll be your right-hand man.”

  Mandrell laughed heartily. “You are ambitious! But that shows there’s great promise in you, Nash. You could go a long way. You are astute, quick to seize an opportunity, to see the main chance. I’ll be honest: I don’t know what position I would be able to offer you. Perhaps it would depend on how you served me. I don’t know at this stage. All I know is that it would be a pity to waste talent like yours when it could be put to much better use.”

  “Well, I guess I’d have to think about it,” Nash said and Mandrell smiled.

  “Naturally. I’m not a fool, Nash, as I said. I know you are stalling for time. You want to see the Garths, perhaps still carry on with your hope of rescuing them ... I assure you that’s just not possible. No one escapes from my camp. And you have not yet seen where they are imprisoned. But you shall. I am prepared to play your little game because I am confident I can win. If you agree to join me, I’m sure you will be an asset. If you don’t ... ” He shrugged. “You will simply be shot out of hand. You will tell me your decision in the morning. Take him out, Colonel.”

  Mandrell returned to the leather dispatch-case on his desk, opened it and began studying the papers inside, not glancing up again as Newman rammed his gun barrel hard against Nash’s side and motioned him out of the tent.

  He was marched across the parade ground where men in uniform dark gray shirts and black whipcord trousers were drilling in the late afternoon sun. The gold star on the flag seemed to glow in the sun’s rays. Nash noted that the men were armed with the latest Winchester rifles, not carbines, the full twenty-four inch barrels for greater accuracy. Their side arms were Peacemakers, also looking brand new, and the cannons lined up with the little pyramids of stacked shells beside each were gleaming and deadly. There seemed to be discipline, good armament and good leadership. It was all that any army needed to take it to victory ...

  The powder magazine was obviously housed in the big log-walled building with the sod roof. There were armed guards outside the heavily padlocked door and a red skull painted on the planks.

  Newman marched Nash around the big log building, refusing to answer any of Nash’s queries, and, behind the magazine, set back among trees, the Wells Fargo man saw a building that could only be Mandrell’s prison. It was built of stone and the door was iron-bound, the few windows heavily barred. There was a guard but he was lounging against the wall, smoking, though he dumped the cigarette and snapped to attention when Newman appeared.

  The colonel motioned to the guard to keep Nash under his gun while he fumbled inside his shirt and brought out a flat leather wallet. He took a key from this and inserted it in the door. He took a second key and inserted it in another keyhole below the first. He gripped both keys and turned them simultaneously. The door sprang back an inch or so and Newman kicked it open with a casual boot. It swung back and clanged against the wall.

  Nash could see little in the dark interior and Newman took out a knife and slashed the ropes binding Nash’s wrists. The Wells Fargo man rubbed them to get the circulation going and Newman grabbed him unceremoniously and flung him violently through the doorway. Nash stumbled and fell on the hard floor inside. He put out his hands to break his fall but they were still too numbed and he crashed onto his face. Bright lights burst in front of his eyes and he heard the door clang shut, the keys turn in the locks.

  “Clay! Is that you, Clay?”

  He snapped his head up and strained to see in the gloom. “That you Walt?”

  “It's me,” Garth answered. “And Susan’s right here beside me. Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m all right,” Nash replied, his eyes growing used to the gloom now. He could make out two huddled figures against the opposite wall, started to crawl across towards them. “You okay?”

  “We’re both unharmed,” Garth answered. “A little shaken-up, but mostly unharmed. How did you get here?”

  “Long story. Got their ultimatum about closing down the stage line or else you two—die. I followed a hunch and it led me he
re. Not that I’m much good to you right now.”

  “You’re here, Clay. That’s a comfort,” said Susan, speaking for the first time. She was very sober and serious: no longer was there any banter or mischief in her voice.

  Nash could see her pale face in the gloom but couldn’t read the expression on it. She sounded calm under the circumstances and he figured she had more spunk than he had given her credit for.

  “I see that the guard doesn’t have keys to this place,” Nash said. “Newman keeps them in a wallet he carries inside his shirt.”

  “Yes, we noticed that, too,” Garth said. “There’s a small trap in the door that they push our food through. When they threw you in, that was the first time the door had been opened since we arrived. It’s Mandrell, of course. I’ve been quite open with Susan: she knows that whether Wells Fargo closes down or not, we probably have little chance of surviving this. Mandrell’s mad.”

  “He’s mad, but he’s organized. Well organized, Walt. If he makes his move when he says he will, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him pull it off. He wants me to join him.”

  “What!”

  “Oh, Clay, you couldn’t even consider such a thing!” exclaimed Susan.

  “It’s the only reason I’m alive now,” Nash said. “I told him I’d think it over. I have to let him know by morning. If I say no, I’ll be shot.”

  “What are you going to do?” Garth asked quietly. “Well, I don’t aim to be here by mornin’, if I can help it,” Nash told them, getting to his feet, feeling the walls. “There must be some way out of this place.”

  “I don’t think so,” Garth told him. “I’ve been all over the walls, even had Susan give me a boost up so I could touch the ceiling. It’s as solid as a mountain, Clay. And, as far as I know, the only other set of keys besides those that Newman has are in Mandrell’s possession. The only way out is through that door.”

  “How about the bars on the windows? Have you tried to wriggle through them Susan?”

  “Yes. They’re too close together, Clay. I’m afraid pa’s right. There's no way out.”

  “There’s always a way out,” Nash muttered, running his hand along the edge of the stonework where it joined the floor. He worked his way clear around the room and found that the frame of the door was iron, set in the stone. The ceiling was of cedar planks butted together. The bars were inch-thick iron set deeply in cement. The floor was stone flags fitted tightly together. There were no lamps or candles or lights of any kind and they had all been thoroughly searched before being thrown into the stone prison.

  Nash refused to give up. Then it was completely dark and he heard the trap in the door open and close as the food tray was pushed in. He groped his way across, feeling around for the tray, hoping there would be knives and forks that he could fashion into tools to scrape away the cement around the bars or between the flagstone joints.

  He was disappointed. The food was a thick soup and it was in three shallow, tin bowls. There were some chunks of dry cornpone and a canteen of water. Nothing more. There was nothing here he could use to aid in their escape.

  As he hunkered down beside Susan Garth and scooped up some of the soup with the cornpone, Nash admitted to himself that Mandrell was right.

  There was no way out.

  Nine – Unexpected Ally

  Jim Hume came back into the big lantern-lit dining room from the relay station porch and walked across to where the log fire blazed in the stone fireplace. He warmed his hands and looked at the soldiers wolfing down their supper. Then he walked through to the kitchen where Mary and Jed Summers were having their own supper. He nodded to them, took a cup and helped himself to coffee, sitting down opposite Mary.

  “I’ve sent a man into Deadwood for a wagon to take the McLean woman and the old prospector in,” he said quietly. “No use sending them on down to Shiloh. It’s closer but Deadwood’s got better facilities. I’m sending you both in on that wagon, by the way.”

  Mary glanced sharply at her father who stiffened at Hume’s words.

  “I reckon we can make our own way, Mr. Hume,” Summers said quietly. “If we got to quit here at all, we’ll do it in our own good time. And we’ll arrange our own transport out. We got some of our personal things we’ll be wantin’ to take with us.”

  “Realize that, Jed. There’ll be another wagon for your use, too. I want the station cleared by sundown tomorrow. It’s ahead of their deadline but I can’t take any chances with the Garths.”

  “But you can with Clay!” Mary said sharply.

  Hume looked at her levelly. “That’s what Nash gets paid for, Mary. You know that. Clay wouldn’t have it any other way and he’d sure want you out of here and safe. Fact is, he needn’t have taken the risk he has, if he’d only told me where he was headed. Or if that stubborn old coot of a sourdough prospector would loosen up.”

  Mary opened her mouth to speak but held the words back as they heard galloping hoofs outside in the yard.

  “Goddamn it, not another raid!” exclaimed Jed Summers leaping up and taking down his shotgun from the wooden pegs on the wall.

  Hume was already making for the door, Colt in hand. He hurried through the dining room where the five soldiers were standing, staring towards the front door, hands hovering over guns.

  “Put out those lamps,” Hume snapped, and two soldiers started to obey but froze when the sergeant suddenly held up his hand and looked at Hume. “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “I reckon them’s army mounts out there, Mr. Hume,” the sergeant said, head cocked on one side. “I hear saber scabbards rattlin’ ... ”

  As if to confirm his words, a muffled command to halt reached them.

  “Get those lamps out, anyway,” Hume ordered and the soldiers continued on their interrupted journey and blew out the lamps, leaving the big room lit only by the flickering flames from the fireplace. Hume crossed to a front window where the sergeant was already using his gun barrel to ease aside the curtain. Mary and Jed Summers stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “It’s the lieutenant, Mr. Hume,” the sergeant reported. “With the men we left searchin’ around the stage hold-up spot.”

  Hume frowned and opened the door, stepping to one side warily. The lieutenant came in wearily and Hume ordered the lamps lit again. The officer doffed his campaign hat and bowed slightly towards Mary.

  “Sorry to impose, ma’am, but my men are very hungry. We’ve had nothing since dawn. If it’s not too much trouble …”

  “I’ll fix them some food, Lieutenant. Have them come in and sit down.”

  “Soon as they tend to the horses, ma’am. And thank you.” He looked at Hume. “Mr. Hume, we found enough tracks to follow and they took us deep into the hills on a roundabout route that was obviously meant to throw any pursuit. But I’ve an Indian tracker in my troop, as you know, and it didn’t faze him, until we got onto the mountain peak behind this relay station. We came to a cliff trail where there were signs there had been a gunfight: one man dead on the trail, blood on some rocks, and ... a fine palomino stallion with letters in the saddlebags that identified it as belonging to Clay Nash.”

  Mary was just coming in with a tray of tin coffee mugs to set out and she stood very still at the officer’s words. “Clay’s horse? You—you didn’t see Clay himself?”

  “I’m sorry to say we didn’t, ma’am,” the officer said quietly. “Like I said, there were signs that there had been a gunfight on the trail but it was getting dark—it darkens a lot earlier in those hills than down here in Longknife—and my man was plumb bushed, tired out. We decided to come back here for the night. Though I have to confess that I don’t hold out much hope of picking up a trail tomorrow. There’s a wind howling through the hills this night and it could well blow away important sign.”

  Mary set out the cups in silence and Hume watched her carefully. He saw she was holding her face carefully blank, but there was fear in her eyes. He cursed the lieutenant silently for opening his mouth within hearing of th
e girl. He had enough problems now without the girl refusing to leave and he knew this was what she had in mind: she wouldn’t leave here now until she knew Nash was safe. Or dead ...

  Mary left the room and Hume questioned the lieutenant more closely about what he had seen. The man told him they had actually been close enough to hear the gunfire of the battle on the cliff trail, but were deep down in a wooded valley so that they could neither see the trail nor get there in a hurry.

  “Looks like Clay’s either got himself killed or captured,” Hume opined, tight-lipped. Then he snapped his head up as Mary appeared in the doorway with old Sourdough Donner. leaning heavily on her, a stick in his free hand to help support him.

  Two soldiers helped the wounded man to a chair and while he regained his breath, Mary looked levelly at Hume.

  “I’ve been speaking with Mr. Donner. I told him that it appears that Clay is in some sort of trouble ... he could be wounded, taken prisoner, even—dead. I have impressed on him how serious it appears to be and that he should tell you all he knows so that you might take steps to help Clay. He has agreed.”

  Hume blinked at her in disbelief, or, rather, he didn’t really absorb it right way. Then he rounded on the old prospector. “That right, old-timer? You’ll tell us where Nash found you and give us a starting point?”

  Donner looked at him with pain-filled eyes. “Don’t really need to if what the gal told me is true. You’ve found the place. That cliff trail’s the one I was shot off of. I’ve been up there before, once, a long time back, during a heavy rain storm. I heard water racing and wondered where the hell a waterfall could be in them hills that I hadn’t seen before. I checked out that trail, found there was a narrow pass through into a valley. And the water was pourin’ down over a flat rock ledge from the rains. It stopped a couple hours after the rains did. But there’s a big valley hid way back in there. I never did ride through that pass to look at it proper but, lyin’ in my bunk inside there, I been thinkin’ about it, and I reckon if any band of outlaws was gonna hole-up, that’d be the place to do it. Likely they wasn’t there when I took that trail, couple years back. But they’re there now and this time they didn’t like me ridin’ so close and they bushwhacked me.”