Clay Nash 18

by Brett Waring

  When he came to, he was lying on the ground beside a campfire, covered with blankets. Coughing, he sat up, blinking, grimacing as pain shot through his chest and he remembered the unhealed bullet wound.

  Clay Nash squatted on the other side of the fire, cooking rabbit meat on a spit-stick in the flames.

  “How you feelin’?” the Texan asked.

  It took Larry some time to recall what had happened. He looked around, smelling the wood smoke. Across the river the whole mountainside was black and smoldering.

  “Judas!” he breathed. “Close, huh?”

  Nash nodded. “Mighty close.”

  “You pulled me out of the river?”

  “Saw you go in. I was down by the ford and ran downstream in time to snag you. Your horse made it to the bank okay.” He looked up at the blackened mountain. “Jubal Ricks got away, though.”

  Larry sat up, shivering a little, moving closer to the fire. “What now?”

  “Well, we’ll cross the mountain a few miles upstream and then go down to Flagg’s Landin’, the river town where the keelboats leave from. There’s just a chance Ricks might still be there, waitin’ for a boat.”

  “An’ if he ain’t?”

  Nash looked at Larry soberly as he gave him some cooked meat. “I’ll go down into outlaw territory after him.”

  “Ain’t that too dangerous?”

  “I’ve been there before.”

  Larry paused as he chewed the meat. There was a new respect in his eyes for Nash. “Can I go with you?”

  Nash hesitated, then shook his head. “I’ll be better off goin’ alone.”

  Larry opened his mouth to argue and then changed his mind and said nothing.

  Flagg’s Landing was a lot bigger than Larry had expected. There was a main plaza with a Mexican market off to one side. Dozens of adobe buildings were mixed with clapboard shacks. The streets were crowded for this was market day and a dozen keelboats were tied up at the town wharf. Buckskin-clad men from the boats wandered the streets or bellied up to the bars or paid for love at the girl parlors.

  Spread out around the town were small farms and, far beyond these, cattle ranches. Judging by all the people in the streets, Larry figured that almost everyone in the district was in town this day.

  “We’ll have hell’s own job of findin’ Ricks if he’s here,” Larry said as he and Nash dismounted at a livery.

  “We’ll find him,” Nash said, leading the way through the double doors. When the stable hand came he told him to grain and groom both horses right away. He flipped the man a silver dollar. “Lookin’ for a pard of ours who might’ve hit town a day or two ago,” Nash said casually, and then he went on to describe Jubal Ricks. “He was gonna book us a keelboat to take us downriver.”

  The stable hand peered closely at Nash and Larry, nodding slowly. A lot of hard-eyed men like these came to town and went down the river on the keelboats to the land beyond the law ...

  “Well, can’t say for sure,” the stable hand said. “Lots of fellers could answer that general description. But there’ve been a couple of hombres like that in here. What kind of horse did he have?”

  “Had two. He was on a sorrel with a gimpy right rear leg and he led a packhorse, a dappled gray, fracture in the left front shoe.”

  The man pursed his lips thoughtfully at Nash’s words. He scratched at an ear. “Might be,” he said. “Might be I’ve seen him.”

  Nash held up another silver dollar.

  The man smiled and snatched the coin away. “Down here.”

  He led the way to the corral out back and pointed. Nash saw the sorrel that he knew from past visits to The Convent. The dappled gray was in the next corral. He nodded his thanks and walked off, followed by Larry.

  “He’s still here!” Larry said excitedly.

  “His horses are. But that don’t mean Ricks is still about. There’s a chance, though. We’ll split up and take a look. I’ll do the saloons, you take the marketplace. If you think you spot him, try to see where he goes then come get me. Don’t go after him alone, savvy?”

  “Sure, Clay.” Larry pulled out his Colt and checked the loads.

  “Don’t try to go up against Ricks with that gun,” Nash added. “He’d have you nailed dead center while you were still thinkin’ about drawin’.”

  Larry flushed. “I ain’t that slow!”

  “Do like I say, Larry,” Nash said flatly.

  They parted outside the livery, Nash heading for the nearest saloon and Larry starting across the plaza towards the market area.

  It was a large, wide, sunlit plaza. Nash stood on the saloon porch, watching Larry weave his way through the crowd. He shrugged off his feeling of uneasiness, then turned and pushed through the batwings into the cool dimness of the saloon, his hard eyes raking the room for Jubal Ricks ...

  Larry was jostled by the crowd as he pushed his way in the marketplace.

  There was shouting and bargaining and arguing. Someone was singing an old Spanish love song in a feeble attempt to attract attention to his wares.

  Then Larry stopped dead, ignoring the cursing of the man behind who bumped into him and then pushed him aside. He stared at a tall big-nosed man in a peaked hat who had several days’ growth of stubble on his face. Thick dark brown hair showed under the hat brim. In silhouette, he looked like the masked man who had thrown down on Larry at the river crossing.

  “Ricks!” Larry yelled, snatching at his six-gun.

  The man spun around, his eyes widening as he saw the gun coming up in Larry’s hand. Men and women scattered, some of the women screaming. The big man in the peaked hat whirled away and pushed into the heavier crowds of the market aisles as Larry triggered a warning shot into the air.

  “Stop that hombre!” he shouted, shoving people aside, cursing as he tripped over a crying child and finally getting jammed in a knot of people trying to run in different directions.

  He struck out wildly with his gun barrel, swearing savagely, jumping into the air in an attempt to see the fugitive. He spotted the peaked hat, hit someone with the gun, lifted it and fired wildly. A woman screamed. A clay pot shattered. The man with the peaked hat dived down a crowd-choked alley.

  A man on a horse was walking the animal through the aisles, a gaudy saddle cloth advertising one of the saloons. Larry hauled

  the startled man clear of the saddle, got a boot into a stirrup and swung up.

  He wheeled the mount around, knocking down several people. He charged the horse forward and people screamed as the animal drove through them, scattering them like ninepins. Larry saw the peaked hat bobbing in the crowded Mexican area. He swore, knowing he would soon lose sight of him in the sea of sombreros. He snapped two fast shots. The man turned and fired back.

  Larry heard bullets rip through the awning over his head. He fired again, crouching low, ramming the horse forward. He caught sight of the fugitive several aisles over and lifted the horse in a leap across a fruit stall. Fruit and vegetables went flying and the fat Mexican woman behind the counter dropped hastily to the ground, screaming invective. The horse crashed into a pottery stall and it overturned with a crash. A woman clutching a little girl to her breast knelt to one side, desperately fingering her Rosary beads. The horse missed her by less than a foot but Larry hadn’t even noticed her. He was concentrating on the man in the peaked hat. Seeing him dive behind some cases, he fired again.

  He didn’t see where the bullet went. Gripping the horse tightly between his knees, he prised cartridges from his belt and reloaded. Then he sent the horse around a wagonload of produce, kicking out at the Mexican who leapt at him in a wild attempt to stop the crazy charge. The man spun away and Larry kicked the horse through another awninged area. The animal cannoned off a pole that came down, bringing stretched burlap and canvas with it. He fought his way out of the flapping material and crashed through a pile of baskets, then cleared the market area and saw his quarry dodge around the corner of a building ahead. He fired and the lead ricocheted f
rom the adobe. The man paused to shoot back and Larry felt the horse stagger. He tried to haul it up but the bullet had cut across the chest muscles and the horse floundered. Larry swore, kicked his boots free of the stirrups and leapt from the saddle. He hit the ground on the run, his feet pounding hard as he charged down the alley and skidded around the building corner.

  A gun exploded almost in his face. He felt the sting of burning powder, heard a wild yell in Spanish and had a momentary glimpse of his quarry holding an old, silver-haired Mexican in front of him as a shield. By then Larry’s gun was up and he triggered three times, the Colt bucking in his fist.

  The old Mexican’s body jerked and then the bearded man in the peaked hat staggered back, blood blossoming on his shirt front. Larry shot him through the center of the chest and he went down as if his legs had been chopped out from under him.

  Panting, sweating, and shaking with the wild excitement in him, Larry stood above the dead man, his mouth twisting as a short laugh came out of him.

  People surged behind him. He turned to them and they stopped several feet away, staring at the dead fugitive and the old Mexican who was down on his knees, coughing blood as he clawed at his scrawny chest.

  Larry tried to control his breathing as he stood there, bright-eyed, his smoking gun at his side. His face lit up as he saw Clay Nash shove his way through the crowd. Nash glanced at the men on the ground and then his cold eyes went to Larry’s face.

  “I spotted him, Clay!” Larry said, gasping the words out. “He ran as soon as I yelled his name! He started shootin’ but I grabbed a bronc and ran him down!”

  Nash stepped forward. His right fist drove solidly into the startled youth’s midriff. Larry staggered back against the adobe wall, the gun falling from his hand. Nash hit him in the face, straightening him, then hooked him to the jaw, turning his head violently to one side. Larry’s legs buckled and he started to slide down. But Nash hit him again, driving his head back the other way, then he slammed another fist to the midriff and Larry fell to his knees, leaning against the wall, gagging, looking up at Nash through puzzled eyes.

  “You goddamn loco maniac!” Nash gritted. “That ain’t Jubal Ricks!” He pointed with a shaking finger at the dead man in the peaked hat. “Oh, I recognize him all right. He’s a wanted man, name of Dixie Donovan. Robbed a bank in Wichita and killed two clerks. But you killed a woman in that crazy chase! Also, a little boy was run down by the horse and God knows what kind of shape he’s in—and now that old Mex looks like he’s coughin’ out his life!” Nash backhanded Larry across the face and knocked him full-length on the ground. “I told you to wait, damn it. If Ricks was still in town he’s long gone now! And look at all the innocent folk you killed or hurt, or smashed up their stalls ... Judas priest, kid, Hume’ll have your hide for this!” He turned to the irate crowd, their temper worsening as they realized the extent of the damage Larry had done. He held up his hands. “Folks, I’m right sorry about this. All I can say is that Wells Fargo will make good the losses, though that ain’t gonna help the kin of the folk who are dead very much ...” He dropped his chill gaze to Larry again as the youth staggered to his feet and leaned heavily against the wall, still dazed. “Meanwhile, you get the hell out of my sight, kid! Stay in town but keep away from me. I’m sendin’ for Hume. I’d better not see you before he arrives or I just might kill you!”

  Nash spun on his heel and walked off towards the telegraph office.

  Larry, taking one look at the hostile crowd, picked up his Colt and, hugging his bruised ribs, stumbled down the alley.

  Nine – The Bounty Hunter

  Clay Nash was having supper in the rear of a cafe, merely picking at his food, when he became aware of someone standing beside the table. He looked up and stiffened when he saw Larry Holbrook.

  The youngster held a rifle and looked grim, his eyes cold. “To hell with Hume,” he said. “I ain’t waitin’ for him to get here. And to hell with you, too. I’m quittin’ Wells Fargo.”

  “You quit this afternoon when you made that crazy play in the marketplace,” Nash told him, watching him warily. “That old Mex died less than an hour ago.”

  Larry momentarily showed concern. “I ...I shot back after Donovan nearly blew my head off. I didn’t even see the old man.”

  “You got a lot to learn about self-control, kid,” Nash said. “A lot to learn about too many things.”

  Larry flushed. “Well, you won’t be teachin’ me. I’m movin’ out. You saved my neck at the river and that squares us for what I did for you. You don’t owe me and I figure I don’t owe you. I hear around town there was a bounty on Dixie Donovan. I’m claimin’ it. I’ll pick it up care of General Delivery, Red Mesa, Kansas.”

  Nash shook his head slowly. “After the damage you did today, I doubt that Hume’ll allow payment of a bounty. I dunno how much it is, but I figure he’ll give it to the kin of the people you killed.”

  Larry’s mouth tightened.

  “Don’t talk,” Nash said quietly. “Don’t say one more word or I’ll kill you.”

  The youth paled and then his eyes narrowed. “All right. This finishes us. But I ain’t finished with Wells Fargo! Not by a long shot!”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Nash called out as the youth headed angrily for the door. “Just call it quits and count yourself lucky. You could be in jail right now after what you did this afternoon.”

  Larry paused in the doorway, ignoring staring customers, drilling his gaze into Nash’s rocky face before going into the night.

  Nash sighed. A crazy kid, he thought. Hot-headed and with a killer instinct, ruthless once he cut loose. The mean streak might have come from his old man. It didn’t matter. Larry Holbrook was finished with Wells Fargo, no matter what he said to the contrary ...

  Jim Hume arrived at Flagg’s Landing the next afternoon.

  Nash had an accurate account of the damage for him; the names and addresses of the two people who’d been killed; and the condition of the child who had been run down by the horse.

  “Kid’s got concussion,” he said to the Chief of Detectives. “Thought he mightn’t come out of it for a spell but he pulled through and he’s got his memory back. Busted leg, though, and a broken arm and some cracked ribs. Lucky it’s no worse.”

  “The company will pay compensation, of course,” Hume said, tight-lipped. “But how the hell did the kid come to cut loose that way, Clay?”

  “Just too damn eager, Jim. Thought he spotted Ricks and cut loose when the man ran. It was Dixie Donovan. When Larry yelled out’Ricks!’ he must’ve thought he said ‘Dix’ and made a break for it. I’d told the kid to come and get me if he spotted Jubal, but—” Nash shrugged. “Too young, too eager ...” He hesitated and then added, “Too ornery.”

  Hume looked at him sharply. “Ornery? I heard other fellers say that kid’s got a mean streak. Is that what you mean, Clay?”

  Nash nodded. “I reckon he’s got the makin’s of a killer. Might not be his fault, but the killer instinct’s there. And it’s gettin’ worse ...”

  Hume nodded tightly. “Only a bullet’ll stop that kind of thing from gettin’ out of hand.” He slapped the sheet of paper Nash had handed him. “And God knows this is out of hand!” He sighed. “Well, I’ll try to straighten out the mess. He’s gone, I guess?”

  “Yeah. Left last night. Dunno where. To tell the truth, I was glad to see him go.”

  “Do you think Ricks headed into outlaw country?”

  “Far as I can figure. He left two horses in the livery to throw us off, I reckon, and then he took a keelboat. Leastways, I’m sure he ain’t still in town, but that don’t mean he couldn’t have slipped out on another horse. Anyhow, I’m goin’ after him.”

  “Hang on a minute, Clay! I can’t afford to let you go into outlaw territory undercover for God knows how many weeks, tryin’ to get a line on Jubal Ricks. He’s high on our wanted list, sure, but I can’t spare you for the time it’d take you to find him. And there’s always the
chance you’ll be recognized. You’ve got a lot of enemies still roamin’ free, you know. I can’t risk losin’ you, Clay, I need you for other work.”

  Nash’s mouth thinned. “I want to nail Ricks, Jim. I left him with the sisters and he killed ’em both. It’s personal now.”

  “You can’t afford personal feuds, Clay, not when you’re workin’ for me. I’ve got other jobs that you can wrap up fast, important ones, and I’m assignin’ you to them. We’ll put a bigger bounty on Ricks. I give you my word that as soon as we get a positive sightin’ of him, you’re back on the case.”

  Nash was silent for a long moment, but finally he nodded in agreement.

  “All right, Jim. But one positive sightin’ and I get the job of goin’ after him. Just one! Savvy?”

  “It’s a deal,” Hume promised. “Now let’s see if we can sort out this mess that damn kid’s left us in.”

  Wells Fargo had the large bounty of $2,500 on Dan Penny’s head.

  Ever since Nash and the fumbling Larry Holbrook had shot up Penny’s hideout, the outlaw had been on the run. He disappeared deep into the hills after the raid and had seen his friends gunned down. He wanted no part of Nash. He knew the man’s reputation, his tenacity, his ruthlessness; he was a man who could not be bought off.

  Word soon spread and Penny found it hard to get someone to hide him out. No one wanted him around because of Clay Nash. They all knew that the Wells Fargo operative would not stop at getting Penny; if he found an owlhoot hangout he would cut loose and bring down as many outlaws as he could.

  No one wanted to tangle with Nash if it could be avoided. Having Penny around practically guaranteed that, sooner or later, Nash would arrive and guns would start blasting.

  To make things worse for himself Penny had no money. This drove him to petty theft from remote ranches and line shacks. He stole clothes, food and any money he could lay his hands on. Inevitably word had to get out that Dan Penny was riding the high trails, living like a scavenger.