Clay Nash 18

by Brett Waring

  The wound needed attention, he knew that. Malloy’s wife had told him which herb to look for but he had forgotten its description. He had been so eager to hit the trail and get after the outlaws that he hadn’t listened closely enough.

  He had resigned himself to the fact that the wound was going to get worse. That meant infection, fever, delirium. But he had found a trail that had been made by four horsemen and a trapper he had met in the river valley two days ago had told of campfire smoke in a draw several miles back in the foothills. Larry had located the draw and the remains of a campfire. After a day’s scouting, he had found tracks leading deeper into the hills. He had camped in thick timber last night.

  Today he aimed to locate the outlaws’ trail again, and this time he didn’t intend to stop until he had their camp in sight. They had tried to kill him and he felt no compunction about shooting them down from ambush. He had to vindicate himself to Wells Fargo, to Hume and Clay Nash and he would do it any way he could.

  Bandaging the wound again was an awkward job, but he got it done and broke camp.

  He had gone only a few miles when he saw the lone rider.

  Larry reined in and worked his mount behind a stand of cedar. He peered out cautiously. The man was dressed in dark brown except for his hat and boots which were black. He had a narrow face and rode a buckskin horse, which fitted the description of one of the outlaws given him by the passengers.

  Larry Holbrook felt tension and excitement within him. Where one of the bunch was, the others wouldn’t be far off. But this man was riding south and the others had fled north since holding up the stage. He guessed they had divvied up the loot and were now going their separate ways.

  He looked at the man closely and decided he was Hawkins. How could he stop Hawkins without alerting the rest of Penny’s bunch if they happened to be nearby? He couldn’t just shoot the man out of the saddle. The sound of the gunshot would carry through the hills and send the others running for cover.

  He moved out from the cover of the trees, but Hawkins spotted him and an instant later the man had a blazing Colt in his fist and bark flew from a cedar’s trunk. Larry’s horse reared and whinnied in fright before running into the brush, throwing him.

  Larry dived behind the tree, dropping to one knee. More bark exploded from the cedar and then he heard the galloping hoofs of Hawkins’ mount as the gunfighter came racing in. Hawkins kept a screen of brush between him and Larry and he stood tall in the stirrups as he fired over the tops of bushes, the muzzle blast of his Colt jarring loose a rain of leaves. Larry sprawled on his back and tried to twist around and get off a shot with his rifle. He managed it but it was a one-handed shot that went over Hawkins’ head. The gunfighter ducked instinctively and, in that brief second, his horse crashed through the screening brush.

  They fired together. Lead thudded into the cedar only an inch from Larry’s ear, bark pieces stinging his face. He threw himself to the side, rolled over a few times and came up on one knee, rifle braced against his hip, finger tightening on the trigger.

  But he didn’t have to fire. His bullet had taken Hawkins through the middle of the face and the outlaw’s left boot was caught in the stirrup. The frightened buckskin took off, wild-eyed, crashing through the brush, the dead man’s body bouncing beside it.

  Shaking, Larry stood up. He heard the buckskin’s progress slowing and thought the man’s body had pulled loose. He looked around for his own mount and saw it through the trees, standing with pricked ears, maybe a hundred feet off. He picked up Hawkins’ Colt, rammed it under his belt and lowered the rifle’s hammer as he made his way towards his mount.

  He should have taken more notice of the horse’s pricked ears. They turned this way and that, as though listening to vaguely heard sounds.

  Still excited from his victory in the gunfight, Larry had totally forgotten about the rest of the outlaws.

  He soothed his horse and mounted, holding the rifle across his knees as he rode slowly forward, putting the animal along the path smashed through the brush by Hawkins’ buckskin. He found the killer’s body in a twisted heap against the base of a tree.

  Larry rode on, wanting to catch up with the buckskin to see if Hawkins’ share of the loot was in the saddlebags. The trail led him into a narrow draw. He could well be on the trail leading to the outlaws’ hideout, he thought. Which meant they had heard the shooting.

  Suddenly two rifles opened up, one from either side of the draw. Larry’s mount shuddered and went down, coughing, his muzzle plowing into the dust. Larry fell out of the saddle, hit the ground on his wounded chest and had the breath knocked out of him.

  Seconds later bullets ripped into the earth around his body. He had lost his grip on the rifle and couldn’t see it. His sight was hazy as he dragged out his six-gun. He still had Hawkins’ Colt under his belt.

  The two outlaws shooting at him from the sides of the draw were joined by a third gun almost directly ahead. This man was higher up the slope, and Larry thought he could see a cave mouth behind him. He caught a glimpse of a buckskin horse with a saddle on its back, and knew that Hawkins’ mount had run for home. Coming in riderless, the horse had warned the others, even if they hadn’t heard the gunfire.

  Now they had him pinned down and he wasn’t sure if they were within six-gun range. He wasn’t a bad shot with a rifle, but only fair with a six-gun. He had had little chance to use a handgun when he lived with his drunken father; the old man had taken him hunting a few times but they had always used an old Kentucky muzzle loader. The handgun felt heavy and strange in his hand. Lying prone, he lined his gun on the rim of the draw where he knew one rifleman to be.

  He spotted the man’s hat and fired just as lead ripped into the ground in front of his face. He saw the hat spin away and felt a measure of satisfaction.

  The outlaws didn’t seem to be in any hurry to finish him off. They must have figured he was alone and were saving ammunition, pot-shotting whenever he moved. The sun, high now, was scorching his back. He looked at his downed horse and the canteen hanging from the saddle. He would never reach that canteen alive. They had him trapped and were content to bide their time.

  He had to admit to himself that he had been a fool to come after the outlaws alone. Maybe after years of experience in the manhunting game, he could do it successfully—as Clay Nash could—but he realized he had bitten off more than he could chew.

  They fired their rifles from time to time, making him keep his head down. Then, just after noon, they started to close in. Larry was determined to go down fighting. Maybe he could take one or two of them with him.

  They rode in, the three of them, two coming down the slopes and one directly ahead. The latter gave a yell. It was a signal. The three rode at him, shooting. Larry aimed at the man on the left, triggered and saw the outlaw fall from the saddle. The man staggered to his feet, then crumpled to the ground.

  A sawn-off shotgun thundered and he heard the whistle of buckshot overhead. Guns hammered and then a rider leapt his mount over him. Larry spun onto his back and just managed to hold his fire as, shocked, he recognized big Clay Nash on the horse. The Texan crashed his mount into the outlaw coming down the right side of the draw. The man fell from the saddle and Nash shot him as he tried to get to his feet. The outlaw pitched onto his face and then Nash wheeled his mount around to face the third man.

  But Dan Penny had had enough after seeing his partners gunned down. He veered left and rode back up the draw, thundering around a clump of rocks. Nash sent two rifle bullets after him. Both ricocheted from the rocks and then came the sounds of Penny’s mount clattering back up the draw as the man made his escape.

  “He’s gettin’ away!” Larry shouted, running for an outlaw’s horse.

  Nash worked his mount between Larry and the skittish animal. “Let him go.”

  “Hell, that was Dan Penny!” Larry protested.

  Nash nodded. “He won’t give us any more trouble. He’ll clear out and keep his tail tucked between his l
egs for a long time.”

  “But there’s a big bounty on him!”

  Nash frowned. “You interested only in that, kid?”

  Larry shrugged. “Wells Fargo’s got a big price on his head. If a man downs him, he’s got a right to claim the money.”

  Nash swept his rifle barrel around. “You got three you can collect on if you want. That one’s Calico Billy Boone. Yonder lies Stede Hackett and I see you nailed Hawkins back in the timber. Heard the shootin’ but couldn’t find a way into this damn draw. Guess I got here in time, though.”

  Larry nodded, his lips drawn into a tight line. He was grateful that he had been saved from the outlaws, but it galled him some that Clay Nash had had to rescue him.

  “You did a damn fool thing goin’ after them alone,” Nash told him.

  Larry glared. “Someone had to do it!”

  “And someone had to come and save your neck.”

  “You want to split the bounty?” Larry asked with a sneer. “Is that it?”

  Nash backhanded Larry across the mouth, sending him staggering. Larry blinked, shocked, blood on his lips.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “You’re startin’ to run hogwild, kid,” Nash told him quietly. “You showed some promise six months back when you split with Sundance, but since we put a shotgun in your hand you ain’t showed up any too good. I heard about that bouncer in Atcheson.”

  Larry flushed and looked uncomfortable. “Sol Guinn fed me some whisky. I don’t even remember the fight—”

  “That bouncer won’t have any trouble rememberin’. He’s got only one good eye now. You’re showin’ an ornery streak, Larry.”

  Larry shuffled his feet. “I—I guess I didn’t realize I could be so mean, Clay. I felt mean enough when Pa locked me up or beat me or starved me, but I couldn’t do nothin’ to get back at him. All that would’ve got me was a worse beatin’.”

  Nash nodded. He had thought as much; it looked like the kid was taking every chance to stand up like a man, but the repressed meanness in him was showing through. All the things he had wanted to do to his bullying, drunken father were starting to bust loose.

  Nash wondered what kind of man Larry Holbrook was going to turn out to be. He said, “Come on. Let’s take a look in that cave and see if the stolen money’s in there.”

  Larry nodded. The look on his face told Nash that the kid still resented having had to be rescued. He wondered what a man could do to straighten out that kind of twisted thinking ...

  Seven – Hard Classroom

  Jubal Ricks had had enough of the root cellar at The Convent.

  He had been there three days and the cold was worming its way into his bones. The two sisters wouldn’t let him out. They fed him through the trapdoor in the roof and wouldn’t remove his handcuffs. Because of this, he was fed stew or a thick soup that could be soaked up with chunks of cornpone. He longed to get his teeth into a thick steak but they would not give him meat, knowing he would need a knife and fork to eat it.

  Millie was easier to get along with than the vinegar-faced Hattie, but neither gave him the slightest chance to escape. Down in the cellar, only a crack of sunlight showed through the roof during daylight hours. Jubal Ricks had tried to dig his way out but had given up. The cellar was too deep.

  He had searched through the sacks of vegetables and the racks of jarred preserves, hoping to find a forgotten knife, a hatchet blade, or maybe even an old garden fork, but there was nothing he could use as a weapon.

  Somehow he had to get out before Nash returned or Hume sent someone from Wells Fargo to take him in. It galled a man like Ricks to be held captive by a couple of women. He knew he would never live it down if his outlaw friends found out.

  Suddenly the big roof doors moved back, the stiff leather hinges creaking, the sisters grunting as they strained to lift the heavy wooden panels. Ricks squinted in the brilliant sunlight streaming into the cellar. Tears forming in his eyes from the glare, he saw Hattie silhouetted against the clear blue sky, menacing him with her Remington rolling-block buffalo gun. Millie appeared at the head of the steep stairs, hands on her hips, looking down at him.

  “Phew!” Hattie said, wrinkling her nose. “Your stink’d make a hog turn and run the other way, Ricks!”

  “Well, you ain’t let me out of here except to go to the privy once a day,” he snarled.

  “Then you ought to be about ready for another scrubbin’,” Hattie said.

  Ricks’ lips clamped together as he remembered how the women had thrown buckets of cold water over him before sinking him to the armpits in a cut-down barrel of soapy water, scrubbing layers of dirt from him with coarse brushes and homemade lye soap. It had been embarrassing for an outlaw with Jubal Ricks’ reputation, and he hoped that that story never got out. Privately he reckoned they hadn’t washed him so much for cleanliness as to jog their memories about how a naked man looked, but he had no intention of mentioning this to them. No telling what they might do ...

  But now Jubal Ricks thought that putting the sisters into a scrubbing mood might be just what he needed.

  “Leave me be, damn you!” he snarled up at them. “I sure ain’t comfortable lyin’ down here with my hands manacled, but I’d rather stay where I am, just as I am, dirt and all, than have to climb into that rain barrel again.”

  “But you stink, Jubal!” Millie told him, chuckling. “You stink to high heaven. As Christian women we can’t allow you to stay dirty any longer. ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’!”

  She held up her left hand and Ricks groaned as he recognized the long bar of lye soap.

  “Aw, hell, ladies!”

  “Quit that cussin’!” snapped Hattie. “And get on your feet and come out.”

  She gestured menacingly with the Remington and Ricks sighed, then clambered awkwardly to his feet and started up the steep stairs. He stopped after a couple of steps.

  “Listen, can’t you just lemme give myself a quick bath?”

  “Come on out of there,” Hattie said.

  Ricks got moving when Millie took a threatening step down.

  “We still got our husbands’ clothes,” Millie said. “My man’s things’ll fit you better than them trousers Hattie gave you before. You’re gonna be all spic-and-span by the time Nash gets back, Ricks. All spic-and-span!”

  Jubal Ricks groaned as he stepped out of the cellar. Millie stood near him, grinning as she held up the bar of lye soap. Hattie looked on expressionlessly, her rifle covering him. He held out his manacled hands.

  “Look at my wrists! I’m gettin’ sores on ’em. Can’t you take the manacles off for a spell? At least while I wash?”

  Millie frowned as she studied the raw skin on his wrists. She turned to Hattie. “Sure don’t look any too good, Hat.”

  Hattie shook her head adamantly. “We don’t take ’em off.”

  “I reckon we could,” Millie said. “You just stand by with that Remington and—”

  “It’s too risky!” Hattie cut in.

  Millie started to argue and Ricks made his move suddenly, catching both women off guard. He threw himself against Millie and she gave a startled cry as she staggered forward and teetered on the edge of the cellar steps, arms flailing wildly for balance. Ricks hit her with his shoulder and she screamed as she fell.

  The rifle had been knocked out of line by Millie and Hattie was startled to see her sister plummet into the root cellar. Before she could bring the weapon around, Ricks was on her. He slapped the buffalo gun from her grip with his manacled hands and then lifted his arms and brought the manacles down, the short length of chain stretching tightly across Hattie’s throat. She started to scream but the sound died in a choking gurgle as Ricks planted his knee against her spine and yanked back hard.

  He flung her body down into the cellar where it fell across the lifeless Millie. The killer scooped up the Remington and ran towards the work shed. The Indian roustabout who did occasional work for the sisters was running hard for the brush. Jubal
Ricks lifted the big rifle and started to draw a bead on the weaving man, but then he lowered the gun when the Indian disappeared from sight.

  Ricks figured to be long gone before the man could do him any harm.

  He went into the house and found an old Dragoon pistol loaded with .44-caliber balls. Twisting and straining, he was able to place the barrel against the short chain linking the manacles. The massive weapon filled the house with thunder and jumped from his hand. But the chain had parted. Jubal Ricks laughed as he held up his hands, one metal cuff on each wrist. It would be a simple job to cut them off in the workshop and then he would find weapons, food and a fast mount. He was tempted to stay until Nash came back and then bushwhack the Wells Fargo agent, but he didn’t know how long the man might be and there was always the chance of the Indian getting in touch with Wells Fargo or the law.

  His best move was to run for the hills.

  The loot from the Topeka stage was in the outlaws’ cave. Nash and Larry recovered the remainder from Hawkins’ saddlebags. The operation was successful. They had the stolen money and three of the outlaws were dead.

  “Hume ought to be happy,” Larry said as he and Nash rode down to the Big Plains.

  Nash snapped his head around. “Think so?”

  “Well, why not?”

  “It was just pure luck it worked out for us and you know it. If I hadn’t come along you’d be dead and Penny’s bunch would have gotten away with the loot.”

  Larry flushed. “I might’ve killed all of ’em!”

  Nash smiled crookedly, shaking his head.

  “Why not?” Larry demanded.

  “You’re too inexperienced, kid. You went for the nearest outlaw when they were chargin’ you.”

  Larry frowned. “What was wrong with that?”

  “One of the others was totin’ a sawn-off shotgun. He’s the one you should’ve put down first. He had the deadliest weapon, the one that could’ve finished you off while you were drawin’ bead on the other hombre.”

  The kid thought about it and nodded slowly. He was calmer when he turned to look at Nash. “I guess I’ve got a lot to learn, Clay.”