Clay Nash 18

by Brett Waring

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  What do you do when your partner reveals a mean streak a mile wide? When he blinds a man in a barroom brawl and shows no remorse? When he shoots and kills three civilians in his pursuit of an outlaw and thinks that was a price worth paying so long as he caught the bad guy?

  Clay Nash knew exactly what he had to do, and he hated it

  Because only a bullet could end the continuing violence of a Wells Fargo man turned rogue. And even though that man was his friend, Clay still knew he had to pull the trigger.

  CLAY NASH 18: ONLY A BULLET

  By Brett Waring

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Digital Edition: October 2019

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  One – Shotgun Guard

  There was no contesting the fact that Larry Holbrook was one of those men who attracted trouble.

  He had been riding shotgun on the Wells Fargo stage line between Topeka and Deadbranch for less than two weeks when the first hold-up occurred.

  Larry thought he was then pushing eighteen. He wasn’t sure, for he didn’t know his day of birth and his mother had died many years ago. His father, an alcoholic waster who used to beat him and use him as slave labor, locking him in his shack in the woods while he went off on a bender, had been killed six months earlier by an outlaw named Sundance. Larry had ridden with Sundance for a spell, getting mixed up in some Wells Fargo Depot robberies before turning on the outlaw when the man tried to wreck a train just to get his hands on a box of gold.

  That was when Larry met Clay Nash, Wells Fargo’s top undercover agent. i

  The way things turned out, Larry saved Nash’s neck and the life of Jim Hume, the Wells Fargo Company’s Chief of Detectives. As a reward Hume took Larry into the company. He put him through an intensive training period and gave him the job of riding shotgun on a stage.

  The company had other plans for Larry in the future, hoping to make him an investigator if he showed the aptitude.

  Short on education, Larry Holbrook was long on guts, and he proved this the day the stage coach rolled down to the ford at Pitchpine Crossing on the Larch River.

  The driver was a grizzled old-timer called Prince, though his name was Dixon. He was a long-time Wells Fargo man and had had plenty of experience with trouble along the trail, from Indians and road agents to floods and brushfires.

  “We’ll water the team here for a spell and give the passengers time to wander off into the brush for whatever they might want to do, kid,” Prince told Larry with a massive wink, his brown skin crinkling like old leather. “You and me don’t even have to get our feet wet.”

  Larry smiled faintly as Prince worked the six-horse team down the winding, sloping trail and hauled rein when the lead horses were halfway across the shallow ford.

  “Them that wants a brush-ticket better take it now,” bawled Prince down at the passenger cab. “We’ll be here for ten minutes, not a second longer. We’re right on schedule an’ that’s how I aim to keep it. Anyone not back by the time I give a yell gets left. Savvy?”

  The passengers grumbled and a banker stuck his head out the window, red-faced with anger.

  “How the devil d’you expect us to get out when we’re halfway across the river, man?”

  Prince winked again at Larry. “That’s your problem, mister.”

  “Damn it, driver, my wife’s with child! She can’t be expected to wade through cold mountain water and over rocks that might turn her ankle!”

  “I suggest that you carry her then, mister,” the driver said, folding his arms and letting the reins dangle as the team began to drink.

  The banker complained vociferously and some of the others joined in, but then a drummer and a cowhand stepped down and waded through the shallows towards the brush on the bank. Larry Holbrook set his double-barreled Ithaca shotgun in its cradle beside the seat.

  “What are you doin’, kid?” Prince asked.

  “I reckon I’ll give the pregnant lady a hand,” Larry said, starting to climb down.

  “Hell, ain’t your job to help passengers keep from gettin’ their feet wet!” growled Prince. He gestured to the shotgun. “That’s your baby. You nurse that and stay on the alert.”

  Larry looked at Prince soberly. “I’ve enjoyed ridin’ with you, pilgrim. Till now.” He started to climb down.

  “What the hell are you gripin’ about?”

  “You didn’t have to stop the stage in the water.”

  Larry Holbrook stepped into the shin-deep water, waded to the open coach door and touched a hand to his hat brim as he looked in at the young pregnant woman and the red-faced banker. He ignored the man and smiled at the woman. An older woman, studiously staring into space and obviously wanting to get involved in an argument, sat in the far corner.

  “Ma’am, I’ll be happy to carry you to dry land and then back to the coach,” Holbrook announced.

  The young woman’s cheeks colored a little and the banker glared at Larry.

  “I should think so!” the banker snapped.

  Larry looked at him coldly. “I’d’ve thought you’d do it instead of just sittin’ there arguin’ ... sir.”

  “By Godfrey, boy, what’s your name?” the banker snarled threateningly, bringing out a notebook and a pencil.

  “Wes, please!” said the pregnant woman. Then she flashed a smile at the husky young Holbrook. “Thank you for your offer. I would like to ...” she blushed again. “That is, I would like to go ashore.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. Now if you could just slide along the seat towards me ...? That’s it. Now swing your legs over a little and I’ll lift you.”

  “Careful, damn you!” growled the banker. “And I still want your name!”

  Larry looked at the woman clinging to his neck. “It’s Larry Holbrook.”

  The banker wrote furiously. “I’ll see that you lose your job over your insolence. And the driver ... what’s his name?”

  “Ask him,” Larry said over his shoulder as he waded to the bank.

  The woman chuckled softly and Larry felt blood rise to his cheeks at the warm brush of her breath against his ear.

  “I’m afraid my husband is not accustomed to anyone talking back to him,” she said.

  Larry smiled and waded on.

  He was within three yards of the bank when the first gunshot crashed across the river and was swiftly followed by another from the brush up ahead. At the same time the drummer and the cowhand came running out of the trees, the drummer holding his trousers up with one hand and his hat on his head with the other. They plunged straight into the river.

  “Bandits!” bawled the cowhand an instant before his words were drowned by the water rushing into his open mouth.

  Three horsemen rode out of the brush, brandishing guns and shooting into the air, kerchiefs masking the lower halves of their faces. Two more armed men rode in from the opposite riverbank.

  Larry was bewildered. His training told him to make a dive back for the stage and grab the shotgun. But he had the woman in his arms and she was
clinging tightly to his neck. He couldn’t let go of her if he wanted to.

  The driver already had his hands high in the air. The older woman in the coach swooned away and the banker looked around frantically for somewhere to hide his fat wallet.

  The raiders rode into the river. Water sprayed and the cowman passenger pulled at his six-gun, hoping the splashing water would conceal his motions.

  A shotgun roared and the cowhand was hurled into the air and back three feet, his body hitting the water in a huge fan of spray. The drummer panicked and floundered back towards the bank. One of the raiders yelled and spurred his mount straight at the man. The drummer turned and threw an arm across his face as the horse smashed into him.

  The bandit rode on, wheeled his mount around and rode back over the same spot as the man’s broken body drifted into the reddish cloud streaming from the cowman’s body.

  Larry put down the pregnant woman and she clutched at his arm as she tried to get her balance. He slapped a hand to his gun butt but froze at the sharp click of a gun hammer. His gaze went up to a masked horseman and he stared into the yawning barrels of his own Ithaca shotgun.

  “You’re too young to die, kid, ain’t you?” the man said mildly. Larry hesitated, then released his grip on the six-gun and slowly lifted his hands over his head. The man chuckled behind the mask.

  As the bandits systematically robbed the passengers, one knocking the banker semi-conscious with a gun barrel when he protested too volubly, Larry watched the man who held his shotgun. He tried to take in every feature he could see.

  He figured the man was a little over six feet tall. He was beefy, thick around the middle and seemed to be in his middle thirties. The little finger was missing on his left hand and the scar tissue there was puckered, like the digit had been crushed rather than severed cleanly. What hair Larry could see under the man’s hat brim was dark brown or black: the sweat stains made it hard to be sure. The greenish-gray eyes above the yellow bandanna were close together and the man seemed to have a large nose behind the cloth. The robber was astride a piebald gelding.

  Larry also took note of how the man was dressed. He only hoped he would live long enough to pass his description on to Hume or Clay Nash.

  “Okay, that’s about it,” the big man on the piebald said, turning round. “Guess you ain’t got much on you, kid, but turn out your pockets anyways—after you gimme your gunrig. Be mighty careful now ... use only your left hand. Fine. Now buckle the gunrig again and hang it over my saddlehorn. Good. Now, your pockets.”

  Larry produced his belongings: A Barlow clasp knife, eighty cents in silver and fourteen cents in copper coins, a short length of cord and a tobacco sack—the papers had fallen into the river and now floated away on the current. The man looked at Larry with his cold eyes, reached down and took the knife, then he slapped Larry’s hand and the money and tobacco sack spilled into the river.

  The bandit laughed, freed his right boot from the stirrup and kicked Larry on the side of the head. The blow sent Larry flying through the air. Semi-conscious, he tried to sit up in the water, moaning.

  The masked men wheeled their mounts around, fired a few more shots into the air and rode out of the water and into the heavy timber along the west bank.

  The shaking, white-faced banker’s wife bent over the dazed Larry Holbrook as he floundered to a sitting position, his jaw badly swollen.

  One thought was clear in his throbbing head: as a shotgun guard he hadn’t shaped up too well.

  Chapter Two – Second Chance

  The Wells Fargo Depot in Topeka was a two-storied building that fronted the town’s plaza, not far from the old Spanish mission church whose white adobe bell tower was a landmark that could be seen for miles across the Big Plains.

  The depot was an adobe building, white with some color around the doors and window sills. Wells Fargo & Co. was emblazoned over the front door in bright red trimmed with yellow. There was a loading platform that was level with the stage door and boot for the convenience of passengers. The stage from Santa Fe had just pulled in and a small group of people stood on the platform, waiting for their luggage to be unloaded in the hot sunshine. One man, tall and rangy, revealed glossy black hair when he removed his hat to wipe around the sweatband with a spotted kerchief. He stood apart from the others, his gray eyes watching the baggage being unloaded. As a battered canvas war bag and bedroll was tossed off, he jammed his hat back on his head and walked towards them.

  He wore a six-gun on his right thigh, the rawhide tie thong hanging loosely. At other times he would have the thong tied tightly around his thigh. He shouldered his baggage and the brass butt plate of a Winchester rifle showed through an end of the bedroll.

  The man walked with an easy gait into the Wells Fargo office, ducking his head slightly to get through the doorway. He was about thirty, with a hawk-lean, darkly tanned face. His gray eyes caught the attention of a clerk who hurried over to him.

  “Lookin’ for Jim Hume,” the tall man announced.

  The clerk lifted his green eyeshade for a better look at the man. “Mr. Hume? He works out of our Denver office. Chief of Detectives.”

  “I know. I’m Clay Nash. He sent word for me to meet him here.”

  “Mr. Nash! Oh, yes, sir. You’re expected. Right through that door and up the stairs. Second office to the left. But he has someone with him, Mr. Nash.”

  Nash nodded and climbed the stairs slowly, savoring the coolness inside the adobe building after the long, stifling, dust choking stage ride from Santa Fe. At the office door he could hear the low murmur of voices. He rapped on the door, then opened it and looked in.

  Jim Hume was a blocky man pushing fifty. He had a squarish face, short-cropped brown hair and a nicotine-stained longhorn moustache. There was a solid look about him, like a sun-scorched boulder that had weathered long years. He sat behind a small desk, his gimlet eyes hard as his gaze went to the door. But his face relaxed as he recognized the big investigator.

  Across Hume’s desk sat Larry Holbrook in a straight-backed chair, his narrow face tight, his mouth no more than a razor-slash. His eyes softened as he recognized Nash.

  The Texan dumped his war bag and bedroll, thumbed back his hat and grinned as he shook hands with the two men.

  “Got here as fast as I could, Jim,” he said, scratching at the dark stubble showing around his jaw line. He flicked his gaze to Larry. “How do you like ridin’ shotgun, kid?”

  Larry swallowed hard. “I guess I like it, Clay, but I don’t think I’m gonna be doin’ it anymore.”

  Nash frowned deeper as he dragged out a chair and sat down, looking quizzically at Hume.

  “I told you in my wire that there’d been a robbery,” Hume said tautly. “Larry was shotgun guard on that run, Topeka to Deadbranch.”

  Nash set his gaze on the youth and began to build a cigarette. He said nothing.

  “I fouled up, Clay,” Larry said quietly. “Forgot all my trainin’. Left my shotgun up on the seat and climbed down to carry a pregnant woman passenger through the water to the river bank. They caught us flat-footed.”

  Nash had noticed the bruise along the side of Larry’s jaw. Now he put his cigarette between his thin dips, flicked a match into flame on his thumbnail and puffed smoke.

  “Did you put up a fight?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Larry admitted shamefacedly. “They had us cold-decked. Even took my guns—the company Ithaca and my own six-gun.”

  “You dunno the worst of it,” Hume put in grimly. “They killed a man and crippled another. They also robbed a banker of two thousand in cash and got jewelry from the women.”

  “Express box?” Nash queried.

  Hume shook his head. “Never touched it. There were bank bonds in it and minin’ company stock. Seems they knew there was no cash. But they knew the passengers were totin’ plenty.”

  “Masked, I guess?” Nash said to Larry.

  “Yeah. Five men. I got a good look at the leader, though,�
�� he said, rubbing gently at his swollen jaw. “Just over six feet I reckon, maybe two-hundred pounds, black or dark brown hair, gray-green eyes, big nose, little finger missing from his left hand. Rode a piebald gelding.”

  Nash pursed his lips and looked towards Hume. “Good description, Jim.”

  “Know him?” Hume snapped.

  “Sounds mighty like Jubal Ricks, ’specially that missing finger.” Nash glanced at Larry. “Was the finger cut clean off or mangled?”

  “Mangled,” Larry said. “One of the others was a redhead and two fellers were on horses that carried the Slash W brand on their rumps.”

  “You did mighty good, kid,” Nash said, impressed. He looked quizzically at Hume as the Detective Chief handed him a piece of paper.

  “Slash W’s a big ranch out on the edge of the plains,” Hume said. “Lost some steers and horse stock a month back. Could be that those two animals were part of those stolen. Sheriff Cass nailed a couple of the rustlers and they reckoned the Olsen brothers were with ’em, but they haven’t been caught yet. Wouldn’t be the first Wells Fargo stage the Olsens hit.”

  Nash nodded as he studied the paper. He smiled at Larry. “You did all right under the circumstances, kid.”

  “He left his gun,” Hume said flatly. “It’s the driver’s job to aid any passengers who need it.”

  Larry flushed. “Hell, Prince deliberately stopped in the middle of the river crossin’, Mr. Hume! I mean, that might be a sort of standin’ joke with Wells Fargo drivers, but I figured it was pushin’ things some when that pregnant female had to go ashore. It’s a rock bottom and she might’ve turned her ankle.”

  “Her husband was there,” Hume said.

  Larry made an impatient gesture. “Hell, he was no help. Beefed all the time about takin’ down the driver’s name and mine. Was gonna report us to Head Office and so on. But did nothin’ to help his wife. I know I done wrong, Mr. Hume, leavin’ my shotgun and so on, but I figured it’d be better for the company if I made some sort of show of helpin’ that poor woman.” He leaned forward his hands gripping the desk edge. “Will you give me another chance, Mr. Hume?”