Clay Nash 18

by Brett Waring

  That had been ten days ago and so far Larry Holbrook hadn’t seen any sign of Jubal Ricks, or anyone else for that matter. If there were owlhoots hiding out in the area, they were staying well out of sight. However, several times he had felt he was being watched from cover.

  It got dark early in Thunder Canyon, the towering walls cutting off the sunlight an hour or more sooner than out on the plains. Reflected afterglow often made the walls glow red and gave the place the look of being touched with blood, which seemed appropriate enough considering the kind of men who used the canyons.

  It was sundown when Larry reached the far end of a writhing draw that narrowed down to nothing and petered out against a towering cliff. On the map it was simply marked as “unexplored”. Well, he could add the words “dead end” now, he thought as he gathered wood for a campfire.

  He thought how lucky he had been with his bounty hunting so far, finding his quarry without a great deal of trouble. Now he let his campfire blaze higher than he had originally intended, for there was a sudden chill in the draw. He was close to the river and could hear the endless thunder of the water as it surged through rapids.

  The sound of the roaring water covered the approach of a man who came to a stop just beyond the glow of the campfire as Larry was lighting a cigarette from a burning twig. Larry’s eyes were temporarily blinded by the flaming stick and the smoke and he was caught sitting on his right leg, holster against the ground.

  Not that he would have had time to draw; the big rifle in the man’s hands was aimed straight at his head.

  “Freeze, kid,” a deep voice said. Only the rifle and the intruder’s legs were visible. The rifle barrel jerked. “Lift your hands, slow and careful.”

  Larry felt the blood drain from his face as he raised his hands, dropping the twig and letting the cigarette dangle from his lower lip. The man stepped fully into the light and the young bounty hunter sucked in his breath as he recognized the bearded face of Jubal Ricks.

  “Hear tell you’re lookin’ for me,” Ricks said casually.

  Larry cleared his throat. “Who might you be?”

  Ricks laughed. “Don’t play dumb, kid. You know who I am. We met once. It was at that river ford. Do you recollect? I see by your face that you do. It still galls you, don’t it, that I caught you flatfooted with that woman in your arms and your gun up on the stage? Didn’t like the chewin’-out you must’ve got from Hume, I bet. Well, you’re loco if you let somethin’ as unimportant as that get stuck in your craw. You most likely figure it’s some kind of drivin’ force, but it ain’t. It’s just plumb petty, kid, the kind of thing that ends up gettin’ you killed.”

  Larry stiffened. “You might as well get it over with then,” he said, forcing the words between clenched teeth.

  “I ain’t in any hurry,” Ricks said. “I ain’t goin’ anyplace. I got me a fine hole-in-the-wall in these canyons. Been watchin’ you for two days now. You’d never cold-deck me like you did Quinn and the others. You just don’t have the know-how, kid.”

  Larry said nothing. His right leg was going numb. His rifle was against a rock beside the Ithaca shotgun, five yards away. He had no chance of reaching either weapon.

  “Can I put my hands down?” he asked, spitting out the cigarette.

  “Sure.” Ricks said, and he squatted down suddenly, moving the big rifle around. It was the Remington rolling-block he had taken from Hattie at The Convent. “See you’re lookin’ at this old gun. I’ve also got myself a fine Winchester repeater, but I like this one. Only need to hit a man once with a .70 caliber slug and he stays down. It’d take your head clear off your shoulders, kid.”

  Larry twisted his head as the barrel was thrust at him suddenly. Ricks laughed, then sobered and studied Larry’s face closely.

  “What are you gonna do?” Larry asked hoarsely.

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, kid. I aimed to just blow you in two and ride out, but I been thinkin’. You gotta have somethin’ goin’ for you, the way you nailed them hombres. How many was it? Four? Five?”

  Larry stared back, not answering.

  “Don’t matter. A couple weren’t any great shakes anyhow. But Mad Mike Quinn was a real ornery cuss. You took him the only way you could’ve, in the back. Showed some sense there. I might be able to make use of somebody like you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ricks grinned. “You and me, kid, we’d make a good team. I know this neck of the woods and neither of us is scared to smoke down somebody who gets in our way. Also you know how Wells Fargo operates, havin’ worked for ’em.”

  Larry licked at his lips, not trusting himself to speak.

  “You’re a pretty ornery pilgrim,” Ricks went on. “I heard about the way you cut up that bouncer. You shot the hell out of people in the market at Flagg’s Landin’, too, and you didn’t seem to lose any sleep over it. The way I see it, you’re usin’ your talents in the wrong direction, ’specially when you hate Wells Fargo so much.”

  The muscles along Larry’s jaw knotted and his nostrils flared as he digested what the killer was saying.

  “Collectin’ bounty money on your kills ain’t hurtin’ Hume or Nash none,” Ricks said. “It don’t come out of their pockets.”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ on that,” Larry replied. “I want to get back at Wells Fargo.”

  “Then you’re a fool. Like I said, you know their stage schedules, the weaknesses in their system, and you must’ve heard about big shipments comin’ up. I know for a fact that word gets out weeks, sometimes months ahead of time. Just think on it for a spell, Larry. You and me hittin’ Wells Fargo and makin’ fools of Nash and Hume.” He laughed. “How does that appeal to you? You really hate them hombres, don’t you?”

  Larry almost forgot the big rifle aimed at him. “I sure do ...”

  “So just forget how I made you look stupid at that river. It only means I’m smarter than you. It was Hume who chewed you out afterwards and it was Nash who beat you up in front of all them folk in the marketplace. They’re the ones who made you look like a fool, Larry. Now I’m offerin’ you a chance to get back at ’em. You got plenty to gain and nothin’ to lose. Why, I’ll even show you how to use a six-gun; you’re kind of draggin’ in that department, I hear.”

  Larry snapped his head up. “You’d show me the fast draw?”

  Ricks shrugged. “Why not?”

  Larry looked into the night, seeing something in his mind. “Then one day maybe Nash and me …”

  “We got a deal or not, kid? I can use you, but if you ain’t gonna make up your mind pronto, I’d just as soon pull this trigger and get on my way.”

  The youth looked at the cold-blooded killer. “We got a deal.” Jubal Ricks nodded, but he made no move to lower the hammer on the big buffalo rifle.

  Eleven – Only a Bullet

  Wells Fargo had certain jobs that were planned well in advance. Some were regular chores, like shipments of money from certain banks to their head offices, or gold from refining plants and mines. One such job was the movement of money after the cattle sales at Wichita. The cattle agencies combined to have their cash transferred by guarded stage to the head offices of the Cattlemen’s Bank in Dodge City. There was no rail link-up and by Wells Fargo stage was the only way of moving the money, often as much as thirty thousand dollars.

  Wells Fargo didn’t, of course, announce when the shipments would be taking place, although most of the company’s employees picked up the shipping date one way or another. As was their way, Wells Fargo didn’t make any obvious and elaborate arrangements. All the stages still carried passengers, but in a big shipment one seat was reserved for a plainclothes Wells Fargo man acting as back-up to the usual shotgun guard. The express box was bolted to the floor and triple-locked. The keys were sent ahead by a special rider.

  The stage carrying money from the cattle sales pulled out of Wichita on time, with one of Wells Fargo’s top shotgun guards sitting beside the driver, Ambrose Jameson. The shotgun guard w
as a scar-faced, granite-eyed man known as “Ace”. The undercover man in the carriage was Wilson Benjamin, a dead shot with a fine record.

  The first two days along the trail were without incident and the run began to settle into a boring trip of mile after dusty mile through mainly featureless country. The stage stopped at odd hours of the day and night to change horses and let the passengers and crew eat indifferent meals at remote way-stations. The swaying and jolting over bad roads tended to put the passengers into a kind of hypnotized state. There was a distinct glazing of their eyes as the stage rolled along the winding trail across the flats that led to Anvil Range.

  Wilson Benjamin held onto the leather hand strap beside his window seat, letting his thoughts wander. He too was becoming mildly stupefied by the long hard journey. Up top, Ambrose Jameson kept the team going and himself alert by flicking his whip with monotonous regularity. The scar-faced Ace sat nursing his shotgun, a rifle clipped beside his seat, his hard eyes roving well ahead of the stage, taking in the sparse timber and rocky outcrops of the Anvils.

  He stiffened when he saw a horseman weaving out of the trees and heading for the trail. Ace figured he would reach the trail at a clump of boulders at about the same time the stage would. He nudged the driver and pointed. Ambrose Jameson frowned, squinting into the sun. Ace rapped on the rooftop with the flat of his hand, soon receiving a few knocks in return that told him Wilson Benjamin was awake and alert.

  “That’s a pack mule that hombre’s leadin’,” the driver said. “Likely a prospector.”

  “You get ready to push that team if I say so,” Ace growled, keeping his eyes on the rider.

  The stage rolled on and the rider leading the pack animal came down the slope, drawing closer. As Ace had predicted, the man drew level with the stage near the boulder clump. Then the rider lifted a hand and startled both men on top by calling Ambrose by name. The driver squinted as he hauled rein.

  “By hell—! Larry Holbrook, ain’t it?”

  Larry rode forward and grinned through the cloud of dust, nodding to Ace, who also knew him. “Glad to see you fellers,” Larry said. He indicated the Anvils. “Been tryin’ to find Jubal Ricks, but no luck. Ran out of grub and I’m almost out of water. You fellers couldn’t help me, could you?”

  “We don’t carry grub,” Ace snapped suspiciously, shotgun at the ready.

  “Hell, I know that,” Larry said, still smiling. “I meant water. You got a water barrel in back, ain’t you?”

  “Sure, but I dunno if we—” Ambrose started, then he broke off suddenly as there was a heavy gunshot and Ace jerked back, the front of his chest smashed in.

  Larry’s hand dipped and came up with a blazing six-gun in it, shooting through the flimsy panels behind the driver. Wilson Benjamin jerked as the bullets punched into him and a woman screamed. Ambrose lifted the reins to slap at the team, but the heavy buffalo gun boomed again from the rocks and the driver was blown clear off the stage. Larry spurred forward and grabbed the harness on the team leaders as they started to lunge away. He held on tightly as Jubal Ricks rode out of the boulder clump, the big Remington smoking, its butt braced on his thigh. Reaching the stage, Ricks leaned down from the saddle and poked the rifle through the carriage window.

  “Now let’s not have any heroics, fellers. Just pile out and shuck your valuables and let me get a shot or two at that express box on the floor so everyone’ll walk away from here in one piece.” He glanced at Larry who still held the team leaders and winked. “Told you it’d work like a charm, kid. You did fine.”

  “Let’s get it done with,” Larry snapped.

  “They were recognized,” growled Jim Hume. “Made no attempt to mask themselves.” He stopped pacing the office floor and looked at trail-dusty Clay Nash who leaned against the wall. “It’s like they want to make sure we know they joined forces, Clay. They’re thumbin’ their noses at Wells Fargo. First the Wichita-Dodge stage with all that cattle money, then the Abilene train and that gold shipment. The damn kid even had the gall to say to one of the train guards that he wanted us to know about it!”

  Nash took out tobacco and papers and built a cigarette. “I didn’t really figure the kid’d go this bad, Jim, teamin’ up with Ricks, but that’s how it is. And like you say, it’s not just to get back at the company, it’s to taunt you and me.”

  “Well, he’s doin’ a real good job,” Hume said bitterly. “I’ve got more pressure on me from Head Office now than I ever did. They want results, no matter what.”

  Nash fired up a match and lit his cigarette. Speaking through smoke, he said, “I missed trackin’ down Ricks around Wichita, obviously because he moved out with Larry before I got there.”

  “Yeah, and they’ve been in two wide-apart places since,” said Hume irritably. “We’re not gonna be able to outguess these two, Clay. They’re a deadly combination and it’s anybody’s guess where they’re gonna hit next.”

  “I disagree, Jim. I figure we could set things up so we’ll know exactly where they’re gonna hit.”

  Hume glanced at the Texan sharply. “They won’t fall for a trap.”

  “They will if we bait it right.”

  “Judas, Clay, the way things are goin’ the company won’t want to risk any money or gold shipments, not even to trap Ricks and Larry Holbrook.” He shook his head. “Head Office has had enough.”

  Clay Nash blew a plume of smoke and looked steadily at the agitated Hume through the haze. “How about we spread word about a big shipment, say of the Governor’s wife’s jewels, going to Santa Fe for an exhibition or something? We’ll use fake jewels, naturally, but only us and the Governor’s wife will know that. Then we can add a special attraction.” He paused and smiled faintly. “You and me.”

  Hume stiffened. “What?”

  “We’re the ones they hate even more than the company. Ricks has sworn to get me for killin’ his brother and the kid hates my guts and yours, too. Do you reckon they’d be able to resist the chance of makin’ a fortune and nail the pair of us in the bargain?”

  Hume didn’t have to think about it long before a slow smile creased his face.

  It took a few weeks of careful arrangements and a lot of co-operation from the Wells Fargo office in Santa Fe plus the New Mexican authorities. The Governor’s wife had had her entire jewelry collection duplicated in paste; she had done this years ago on the advice of her insurance company.

  New Mexico was in the midst of a celebration commemorating an important event in its history, when the U.S. Cavalry engaged Mexican-Spanish troops at the Mission of Santa Fe in a battle that rivaled the Alamo for savagery, but this time with the Mexican contingent as the beleaguered force. It was the battle that caused the Mexican Army to pull out of New Mexico. The Governor’s grandfather was one of the heroes of that engagement, so the Governor, on the fiftieth anniversary of the fight, had decreed that celebrations be held in his State. It seemed reasonable that the Governor’s wife should let her jewels be displayed at such an occasion, especially as some of the collection had come from deposed Spanish royalty.

  Under the circumstances it was only natural that a company with Wells Fargo’s reputation be asked to carry the jewels from Kansas to Santa Fe, and that the company would assign its best men to guard such an important collection.

  As Nash had told Hume, the jewels would be too tempting a prize for Ricks and Larry Holbrook to pass up, especially with the bonus of a confrontation with Hume and Nash.

  He was right. The plan worked to perfection. The stage wasn’t even out of Kansas when the outlaws struck.

  The driver, Whip Nation, of French and Creole extraction, tooled his team expertly through a narrow defile that almost brushed the sides of the stage. Clay Nash rode shotgun. He didn’t think there would be any point in Ricks and Larry trying to stop the stage here for there wouldn’t be enough room to get in to the passenger compartment where the iron-bound express box was bolted to the floor. Still, he was on the alert.

  But it didn’t hel
p.

  The big Remington rolling-block rifle thundered from above and the left lead horse shuddered in its traces and dropped, blood spurting from its neck where the high-caliber bullet had severed its spine. At the same time there was a crashing rumble from behind and Nash whipped around in time to see several huge boulders thundering down the slope, blocking the defile behind the stage.

  Hume and the passengers tried to get out of the coach but the doors wouldn’t open far enough because of the narrow walls of the defile. The Remington boomed again as Nash tried to see the bandits. Whip Nation spun off the stage and fell amongst the flashing hoofs of the terrified team.

  “You’re next, Nash, if you don’t throw down that shotgun!”

  Nash swore, recognizing Jubal Ricks’ voice. He had no target to shoot at and nowhere to go. He was cold-decked.

  Nash got to his feet slowly and lowered the hammers of the Ithaca before dropping the shotgun between the coach and the defile wall. He raised his hands, his gaze raking that slope, looking for a sign of Ricks.

  “Hello, Clay,” said a voice behind him, and he felt the stage rock slightly.

  Nash turned his head and swore as Larry Holbrook stepped onto the top of the coach from behind a large rock on the defile wall.

  “Didn’t expect this, did you, Clay?”

  “It ain’t over yet,” Nash gritted out.

  Larry smiled thinly and Nash noticed the new hardness in his narrow face. “Ain’t it, Clay? I think it is over. We’re gonna steal them fake jewels. Oh, yeah, we knew the real jewels wouldn’t be shipped out for an exhibition, but that don’t matter. Wells Fargo is gonna suffer just the same from the bad publicity.”

  Nash swore, knowing Larry was right.

  “The company will look foolish as hell because we outsmarted you,” Larry went on, smirking. “Add to that the loss of their two top men in the bargain ...”He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Poor Wells Fargo.”