by Brett Waring
“Clay! What in hell are you doing here?” Hume exclaimed.
Nash paused, glanced up then, grim-faced, continued on to the landing and stood looking squarely into Hume’s eyes.
“Damn fool question, Jim,” he said shortly and pushed past the Chief of Detectives and went into the office.
Hume followed and kicked the door closed, storming across the room to his desk. He went behind it but did not sit down. He leaned his knuckles on the edge and glared at Nash.
“I asked you a question, Clay, and you haven’t answered it!”
Nash dropped wearily into a chair and hooked a boot across one knee, reaching for the makings and beginning to build up a cigarette. “You know damn well why I’m here. Pop Moran. Do I have to spell it out more?”
“That doesn’t make sense! Black Bart’s your assignment. The express van robbery has been turned over to a team of field operatives.”
Nash nodded, flicked a vesta into flame on his thumbnail and fired up his cigarette. “The Black Bart thing’s fizzled out. Someone tryin’ to use his methods, is all.”
“You couldn’t have had enough time to be sure of that!”
“Not positively,” Nash admitted, “but I could spend a month checking it out.”
“Then that’s what you should be doing.” Hume’s tone was edged with anger as he sat down, his eyes boring into Nash’s mutinous face. “Black Bart’s number one on our Wanted List and your assignment was to follow through on the reported sighting of him!”
Nash stood up and moved restlessly across the room to the window.
“I’m convinced I’d be wasting my time, Jim,” he said quietly, obviously making an effort to keep control. “Pop Moran was my friend and his family showed me hospitality when I was in Yuma and they hardly had enough grub for themselves. I couldn’t see myself wastin’ time ridin’ all over the country chasin’ some will of the wisp when Pop had been killed in a hold-up.”
“And just what in hell did you figure you could accomplish? Your being here won’t bring Pop Moran back to life or help his family. I know they’re not well off, but—”
“They’re goddamn near destitute! That’s how well-off they are!” Nash broke in harshly.
“All right, all right. The company will help to some extent. We’ll see them through their immediate problems.”
“You know that Mrs. Moran is going to have another baby?”
Hume showed his surprise, stared at Nash and then shook his head slowly. “No, I didn’t know that. But, as I said, the company will help all it can. Just how much I can’t say, but there’ll be some sort of compensation for Pop being killed on the job.”
“Sure, sooner or later!”
“Well, it’ll come through, that’s the main thing. And the question still remains. What in hell did you hope to accomplish by coming back here without orders?”
Nash flicked his cigarette out the window and walked back to stand in front of Hume’s desk, looking down at him with cold eyes.
“Like I said, Pop was my friend. I like his family and they need money. I figure the usual reward will have been posted for Clint Christian and his gang, so I reckoned to come back, get on the assignment after finding out all you know, and then try to get Christian just as fast as I can.”
“And give the reward to Pop Moran’s kin?”
Nash nodded curtly. “Somethin’ like that.”
Hume sighed and waved Nash to a chair. The big operative sat slowly and the detective chief could see the lines of weariness drawing down the corners of his mouth and he figured the man had ridden day and night to get here.
“Clay, you know I can’t let my operatives pick and choose their assignments. If I let you do it, I have to let Clyde Brown do it, or Dakota Haines, or Fred Schumann. When you’re assigned to a job it’s because I figure you’re the best man to handle it. Now I’m not sayin’ that you mightn’t be a good man on this train hold-up, because you would, but the fact remains that I’d six good operatives I could call on from close by and you were already workin’ on a job that the company considers of prime importance. You know why we have to get Black Bart! He’s been making fools of us and all our security arrangements and we just can’t afford for that to happen. It’ll bring every two-bit road agent in the country down on our stages to see if they can beat the system, too.”
“I don’t need this kind of talk, Jim,” Nash broke in irritably. “I told you: I was on a false trail that I’m convinced would lead nowhere. I reckoned I could put the time to better use workin’ on this Clint Christian thing.”
“You reckoned,” Hume said, a twist to his mouth. “Look, Clay, we’re both tired. You’ve obviously ridden hard; I’ve been on my feet for forty-eight hours straight. We’re both edgy. Let’s go have a drink and a meal and then get some rest and we’ll talk more about this tomorrow.” He looked at Nash narrowly. “Before we both say something we’ll regret later.”
“Sure, I’m tired,” Nash said, making no move to get up from his chair. “I’ve ridden hard and far.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I stopped off briefly in Yuma to see Pop’s family. It wasn’t an experience I want to remember. His kids thought a helluva lot of him, and so did his wife. Now they’re left in a half-finished house, with not much food in it and plenty of bills. I gave them what money I had, but I had to stuff it into the pocket of the smaller kids’ shirts. Mrs. Moran and the eldest gal, Maggie, are proud folk, Jim, but I know they’d be glad of the reward and I figure I can get Christian.” He stood up and added quietly, “And if you don’t want to assign me the job, then I’ll turn in my badge and go it alone.”
Hume couldn’t quite hide his surprise but covered swiftly, frowning as he looked up into Nash’s rock-like face. He pursed his lips and sighed, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Well, if you feel that strongly about it, I guess I’d better assign you the goddamn job!”
Nash smiled faintly and sat down with a weary sigh. “Suits me.”
“So it damn well should!” Hume growled. “You won that round. And I guess Black Bart can wait a little longer. And, if you say it wasn’t him around Yuma, then that’s good enough for me, I guess.”
Nash nodded soberly. “Let’s forget Black Bart for now. huh? How about this hold-up?” His mouth twisted. “Damn it, Jim, I looked over that express car with Pop and I was certain sure no one could bust in there! It was like a bank vault! How in Hades did Christian do it?”
“Well, we didn’t let it out in case someone else tries it, but seems Christian grew up with Mishawka Indians. They’re Comanche breakaways. You’ve heard of ’em?”
“Sort of ... they didn’t like fightin’, did they?”
“That’s about it. A peaceful group. They broke away, several hundred of ’em, and set up their own territory in the Mineral Breaks in the north of Arizona. They grew corn and other crops, domesticated animals and generally formed a settled community. They became known as the Mishawkas because of a brush that grew around their camp. It’s named michauca, and it means ‘burning tears’. The Indians found that by setting fire to it and then blowing out the flames, the smoldering core gave off a kind of toxic gas that blinded animals in their burrows and caused them to choke for air. It was quick-acting, and one stick was said to be enough to clean out a whole warren of jackrabbits or prairie dogs or whatever they were huntin’.”
“Christian got hold of some of that stuff and used it on the express van robbery?” Nash asked, incredulously.
“That’s about the size of it. They stuffed the weed through the loopholes, wedged up the shotgun floor chutes with logs, and before any of the guards could get to the bellows to clear the air, they were hit by the gas. I guess someone panicked and shoved open the steel door in an attempt to get to fresh air. Then Christian and his men moved in and finished them off.”
Nash’s face was harder than ever, his eyes deadly. “Then they weren’t shot down in a gun battle. Clint Christian moved in and murdered them all while t
hey were still groggy from this michauca gas?”
Hume nodded slowly, face grim. “Two of his men were cut down, almost as soon as they started to wedge up the shotgun chutes. Some passengers heard him yell ‘no quarter’ and that’s just what he meant. He’s done it before on a couple of raids, but he went too far this time. Now, people will remember Clint Christian and they’ll talk about him for years to come, but it won’t be as a goddamn Robin Hood but a cold-blooded murderer.”
“And the loot was so big it won’t bother him what folk say, I guess. Just how much did they get, Jim?”
“All of it,” Hume said curtly. “One hundred thousand in cash, sixty thousand in gold.”
Nash whistled. “You know, sounds to me like it might have been Clint Christian’s last job. One big raid, to hell with the slaughter and everything else. Just get that money and gold and then disappear forever.”
Hume frowned, scratched at his upper lip in a characteristic gesture when he was thinking fast and, finally nodded. “You could be right, Clay. It’s an angle I hadn’t considered. Means that, if you’re right, Christian’ll clear out of Arizona and head for some place big to start spending and changing his name and identity. Going to be a hard chore to track him down.”
“It’ll be hard,” Nash conceded, “but there’s one thing. No matter how it started out, it’ll be Clint Christian’s last job. I’ll see to that.”
Hume looked sharply at Nash. “Wait up, Clay. I’ll put you on this assignment, but we’ve got to make a deal first.”
Nash frowned. “What kind of deal?”
Hume leaned forward across the desk. “I want Christian alive.”
Nash stiffened.
“Alive, Clay! He’s a big name in this State. I want him hung publicly. I want folk to know that Wells Fargo don’t let these outlaws get away with robbing their stages or express cars or killing their guards. I want a lot of publicity on this and the quicker you can bring him in, the better.”
“I see your point of view, Jim, but I’d figured on finishing Christian myself. If you’d had to look into the faces of Pop’s wife and children—”
“You bring him in alive, Clay,” cut in Hume harshly, “or you don’t get the assignment. And I’ll see that you don’t get a chance to go it alone. I can do it. I can have you put away in Yuma Territorial Prison for a spell, long enough for someone else to bring in Christian, and I will, unless you agree to my terms.”
Nash had known that Hume could rule his men with a rod of steel when he wanted to but he had never run up against it personally before. Hume was quite capable of trumping-up some charge that would put Nash away long enough for Christian to be brought in, tried and hanged on the public gallows.
“As long as the reward goes straight to the Moran family as soon as I bring him in,” Nash said finally.
“Sure, Clay. But I wouldn’t be too confident about bringing Christian in, in a hurry. We haven’t any lead on him. He broke the skulls of both the fireman and the engineer and the passengers were too scared to be much use. We lost his tracks in that desert country after a few miles.”
“What about in the express car itself? Usually they’re in such a rush to get the cash and vamoose, they leave some clue behind them.”
“Nothing of much help this time.” Hume eased back in his chair and opened a desk drawer. He reached in and lifted something out and dropped it onto the desk on the side in front of Nash. “We found that gripped in Pop Moran’s fingers.”
Clay Nash picked up the object. It was a metal concha, not silver, more like nickel, and there was an Indian design around the edge. He turned it over and saw that a frayed rawhide thong still clung to the metal bar by which it could be attached to belt or vest or chaps.
“Could have grabbed it when he fell,” Nash said, “and maybe pulled it off his killer. Most likely his chaps. Or maybe a belt. If he fell against the killer it likely wouldn’t be noticed as it broke free. But it would if it came off a vest.”
“Makes sense,” Hume allowed. “But there are a lot of cowpokes who wear conchas on their belts or chaps in this neck of the woods, Clay.”
“Sure, but I haven’t seen this design before. Mostly they’re Mexican, but I’d say this is definitely Indian. This cluster of triangles could represent mountains and the circle would be the sun and the twin zigzags could be a river. Just going on general Indian design ... and it looks like nickel. I’d say the feller who wore this bought it in some trading post near a reservation.”
“Might be worth following through. God knows we don’t have much else, Clay.”
“Do we know who runs with Christian?”
Hume shook his head. “He keeps changing his men. Might keep one or two good gun hands with him, but most times he gets a new gang together before he pulls a job. If he can get someone who’s an expert in something that’ll help him carry out the job, then so much the better.”
“All right. I’ll get back to Yuma soon’s I can, and see what I can find out.”
Hume stood up as the door opened and a tall man stepped inside, kicking it closed behind him. A sawn-off shotgun was slung from his belt on a dog clip swivel and he was tall and lean and hard-eyed, tanned a mahogany color. His longish face had a kind of melancholy look.
“Dakota Haines!” Nash exclaimed, walking across to shake hands with the newcomer. “Hell, I haven’t seen you since we worked together with Pop and Clyde Brown down in Texas.”
Haines, never one for saying much, merely nodded and allowed a faint smile to touch the corners of his mouth. He looked past Nash to the Chief of Detectives.
“You know why I’m here, Jim.”
Hume sighed and threw up his hands. “I dunno why Wells Fargo bothered to make me Chief of Detectives! My operatives seem to think they can do what they like, pick their own assignments!”
“That road agent you sent me after is now out of business,” Haines said quietly and tapped his shotgun. Nash and Hume knew what that meant. “I figured I’d come in and get assigned to the express van robbery ... Pop Moran was a pard of mine.”
Hume glanced at Nash, shaking his head. “All right, Dakota. I guess I can’t go wrong putting my two best operatives on the case. But the same deal applies to you as to Nash. I want Clint Christian alive.”
Haines looked surprised and looked sharply at Nash, who nodded.
“Come on,” Hume said abruptly. “Let’s go have a drink. Clay can fill you in, Dakota. I’ve had enough of this damn office for today.”
He opened the door and stood aside for Nash and Haines to go out. Hume watched them start down the stairs.
For the first time since he got news of the train robbery, Hume felt a sense of relief. His two best men, avengers both, were going after Clint Christian.
~*~
As they topped the rise that overlooked the approach to Yuma, Dakota Haines reined in his mount and hipped in the saddle to look at Clay Nash as the big man came alongside.
“All right, so we’re here. Now would you mind tellin’ me what in hell we’re doin’ back in Yuma when the robbery was carried out at Buckshot Plains, a hundred and twenty miles down-track?” Dakota Haines sounded irritable and Nash knew the swarthy man was itching for action. He was a man of violence and that sawn-off on the dog clip swivel was loaded with shells that carried maximum charges of .00 buckshot. Haines was eager to discharge both barrels into someone who had been connected with the train robbery and the slaughter of Pop Moran and his guards. “We’re wastin’ time, ain’t we?”
“I dunno,” Nash admitted. “I’m playin’ a hunch, Dakota. Just a few things Pop said, remarks that meant nothin’ at the time, but could do now, after the robbery.”
“Like what?”
“We-ell, kind of hard to put into words. But he was worried about the job of guarding all that money. That wasn’t like Pop. It was maybe more responsibility than he’d ever had, but he could ride with that sort of thing as a rule. It didn’t faze him worth a damn. But somethin’ about this cho
re did.”
Haines shrugged. “Pop was gettin’ on a bit, for this kind of deal, Clay. And with another mouth to feed he was likely a mite worried, for once.”
Nash shook his head stubbornly. “It was more than that, Dakota. He had me go over the van with him, as if he wasn’t sure it was gonna work, or ... ” He broke off abruptly. “By hell! That could be it!”
Haines waited impatiently. Nash turned to look at him squarely.
“Dakota, I hate to say this, but I think Pop might have spoken out of turn about this deal.”
Haines stiffened. “Wait up a minute! I knew Pop Moran a lot longer than you. We worked some hell-ridden chores together and shared a lot of gun smoke. Pop was a loyal Wells Fargo man. He wouldn’t sell out!”
Nash held up a placating hand. “Not sayin’ that. Maybe he let somethin’ slip he shouldn’t have—and realized it. And that's what was botherin’ him. He had me check the car over with him, time and again. Also, he’d been drinkin’ more than usual. His daughter, Maggie, told me that and his wife mentioned it, too. All starts to add up, Dakota.”
“Pop Moran wouldn’t sell out,” Haines said stubbornly, yanking his horse’s head around and setting the animal down the slope towards Yuma.
Nash shrugged and set his horse after the other. He took the concha from his shirt pocket and studied that incised design in the metal as they rode down into the town.
A half-hour later, he pushed the concha across the deal table towards Maggie Moran where she sat beside her sad-faced mother in the kitchen of the big, unfinished house. It was strangely quiet in that house now.
“This was found in your father’s hand, Maggie,” Nash said gently. “You ever seen it before?”
The girl took up the metal disc and she and her mother studied it closely. Maggie handed it back to Nash and shook her head.
