Clay Nash 3

by Brett Waring

  “Can’t say that we have, Clay,” she told him, hesitantly.

  “You don’t sound too sure,” said Nash.

  Maggie twisted her hands and looked unhappy.

  “Tell ’em, girl,” Mrs. Moran said huskily. “It could help.”

  The two operatives waited as Maggie chewed briefly at her bottom lip and then looked at Nash.

  “Well, there was this man ... he came to the house several times with a bottle of whisky and he and pa would sit drinking it on the back porch. He—he wore a line of conchas on his chaps.”

  Nash straightened in his chair and Haines paused with his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

  “D’you know his name?” Nash asked.

  “I heard pa call him ‘Frank’. Look, Clay, a lot of Arizona cowboys wear chaps with conchas on and I wouldn’t want to make a mistake that would cause trouble for some innocent man. Especially as I had the impression he worked for Wells Fargo, too.”

  Haines and Nash exchanged glances.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, I know they were discussing the express van and once, dad was drawing a rough sketch of it in the dirt at the foot of the back stoop. He—well, he was a little drunk and seemed to realize he shouldn’t be doing it halfway through and scraped it out with his boot.”

  “How’d the other hombre react to that?” Haines asked tautly.

  Maggie shrugged, looking up at him. “He didn’t seem to be bothered … Hess!” she said abruptly, her face lighting up. “That was his other name! I remember now, when pa told him he had no right to ask so many details about the job, he laughed and said, ‘Well, you’re probably right. Pop, but it’s a failing of the Hess family, being inquisitive, and I was interested from an engineering viewpoint, too.’”

  “Engineering?” Nash looked blank. He turned to Haines. “That name Hess mean anythin’, Dakota?”

  Haines shook his head slowly. “Nope. Engineerin’? Could be he was an ex-railroad man. Someone who knew the Tucson special was due to stop at that water-tank when it did.” Haines moved around restlessly. “Whoever snatched the throttle lever from the cab of the locomotive, then shot out all the brake-line hoses between the cars, knew his railroad business, that’s for sure.”

  “An engineer,” said Nash. “I think we’re onto something, Dakota.”

  He stood and Haines drained his cup and set it back on the table in front of Mrs. Moran. He touched a hand to his hat-brim and thanked her quietly, adding:

  “Don’t you worry none, ma’am, we’ll get whoever did it.”

  She looked up at him with eyes full of pain. “I’m no fool. Mr. Haines. Pop spoke in liquor to that man Hess, didn’t he? He realized it and that’s what was worryin’ him, what was makin’ him so irritable and hard to get along with. The whole thing could well have been his fault, couldn’t it?”

  Dakota Haines moved his feet awkwardly and looked at Nash, not answering.

  “Clint Christian is the only one at fault, ma’am,” Nash said quietly. “And we’re gonna get him. Adios, Maggie. You’ll be hearin’ from us.”

  Maggie followed them to the front door and took Nash’s arm as he crossed the porch.

  “Clay, you’ve been a good friend to us in the short time we’ve known you. We—we’re very grateful for all you’ve done. And are doing. Please be careful. These men are—cold-blooded killers. I—we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, Clay.”

  Nash smiled faintly and bent down to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “Dakota and I know what we’re about, Maggie. You just take care of your ma.”

  ~*~

  There was a saloon near the railroad depot, frequented by men who worked for the Arizona and Western Line, and Haines and Nash went there. They ordered drinks and Nash asked the barkeep casually:

  “Frank Hess been in lately?”

  The barkeep, a sweating, blocky man with hooded eyes, stared at Nash then flicked his gaze to the stony face of Haines.

  “Don’t think I know the man,” he said carefully. “Now, you want more beer or don’t you?”

  Nash nodded automatically but Haines grabbed the barkeep’s wrist and squeezed. He bared his teeth in a mirthless grin.

  “We’ll have two more beers, sure, but we’ll have some information first ... about Hess.”

  “I told you, feller, dunno no Frank Hess.” The barkeep’s face was dripping with sweat now as Haines applied pressure and he couldn’t tear his hand free. He reached under the counter with his other hand for a bung-starter and Haines pulled him half across the bar top. He slammed the man’s face down onto the zinc top, shoved him violently backwards so that he skidded and fell back with a crash against the bottle-loaded shelves. There was a sound of shattering glass and men looked up swiftly from all around the room.

  Before the barkeep had his wits about him again, Haines had leapt the counter and had the man’s right arm twisted up his back, applying pressure and forcing him to bend in the middle. He kept pushing up and the barkeep’s head went down closer and closer to the sludgy slop-tray underneath the counter. Nash looked around challengingly at the others, hand riding his gun-butt. No one made a move to interfere but there were hard looks and it was plain to see that the railroad men didn’t like a couple of strangers coming in there and roughing-up their barman.

  “You’re gonna drink that slop tray dry,” Haines gritted, forcing the struggling barkeep’s head lower, “unless you tell us what we want to know.”

  “Hell’s flames, all right!” gasped the barman and Haines eased the downward pressure a little but wouldn’t let the man straighten up.

  “Frank Hess,” Haines prompted.

  “Ain’t seen him in a couple of weeks. He used to do some drinkin’ with Pop Moran. Then he stopped comin’ in.”

  “Hess was a railroad man?”

  “Long time back,” the barkeep gasped. “When they were workin’ on the line through the Injun Reservation down around Saddleback. Had some trouble with a squaw and the railroad fired him. He ain’t done much of anythin’ since, though I heard he kinda bent the law a mite now and then. Now can I have my goddamn arm back?”

  Haines released him at a nod from Nash and the barkeep suddenly lunged for his bung-starter and snatched it up with his good hand, swinging it savagely at Dakota’s head. Haines lifted an arm to ward off the blow and the bung-starter cracked against the bone. He brought up his boot and planted it in the middle of the barkeep’s belly, heaving him back the full length of the bar to crash against another shelf and bring down more bottles and glasses.

  Nash turned to see what was happening and someone in the big room yelled something about ‘cowpokes takin’ over the saloon’ and there was a rush of men. He had to slug right and left as he was carried back against the bar. The edge of the counter bit into his back and he grabbed it, used it as a lever to swing up his boots. He caught one man in the jaw and another across the side of the head. Then he dropped to his feet, crouching, backing away as four men closed in on him. He felt behind him, grabbed up a chair and rushed forward, swinging in a wide arc, yelling wildly. The men jumped back and Nash hurled the chair into their faces and took a chance and looked behind the bar.

  But Haines and the barkeep were down on the floor, Dakota straddling the man and slugging blow after blow into his battered face. Then Nash reeled as a fist thudded against his jaw and another caught him on the ear. He stumbled and almost went down and yelled for Dakota to get on out of there before they were both killed. Haines’ face, bleeding, appeared over the edge of the bar and he held his sawn-off shotgun in his hands. A bunch of hard-muscled railroad men moved in on Nash, slugging, driving him back into the wall.

  Dakota lifted the barrels of his shotgun and fired into the ceiling. Wood and shattered shingles and broken lamps from the wagon wheel chandelier came crashing down and men dived through the doors and out of windows, scattering at the thunderous detonation of the shotgun. Haines swung the smoking gun down, leveling the unfired barrel at the
panting, remaining men. They backed off slowly, lifting their hands.

  “Easy, cowboy!” one man panted. “We don’t want no gunplay. Just didn’t like the idea of you comin’ in roughin’-up our barkeep ... is all ... ”

  “Anyone know where Frank Hess hangs out?” Dakota demanded, seeing Nash straightening against the wall, dabbing at a bleeding nose. “That’s all we want to know. If we don’t get an answer, could be we’ll have to shoot down a few more of them oil lanterns ... the lighted ones.”

  The man who had spoken before, frowning, glanced at his pale-faced compadres and lifted his hands out from his sides.

  “Dunno where he is now, but there’s a place somewheres in Tombstone he’s s’posed to have a gal.”

  Haines glared at the man, then nodded jerkily, lowering the hammer slowly on the shotgun. “Could be you’ve just saved your saloon, mister. You all right, Clay?”

  Nash nodded and started edging towards a side door as Haines jerked his head in that direction. Dakota, keeping the men in the bar covered, moved towards the same door and a minute later they were outside and running for the hitch rail where their horses waited.

  “You sure are the direct sort!” Nash panted.

  “You’re too damn polite,” Haines retorted as they swung up into leather and spurred their mounts forward, hearing the yells of the angry mob of railroaders pouring out of the saloon behind them. There were a few scattered gunshots as they galloped out towards the edge of town.

  Four – Tombstone Trail

  Frank Hess was with his girl, a part-Indian, when word came through from Yuma that two men had shot up the old railroad saloon in their efforts to find out where he was. Hess threw back the covers immediately and began to get dressed, slapping away the hand of the Indian girl as she leaned out of the bed and tried to get him to stay.

  “Vamoose outa here,” he growled and looked at the man who had brought him the news. It was ‘Whip’, the bandit who had waited on the water-tower for the fireman to climb up. “They lawmen?”

  “Dunno,” Whip said. “But one totes a sawn-off on a dog clip swivel on his belt.”

  Hess frowned, thinking hard. “Heard of some hombre who does that ... But can’t quite recall ... Judas, yes! Name’s Montana or somethin’. A Wells Fargo man ... ”

  Whip paled. “How—how could he have got onto you?”

  “Damned if I know,” Hess growled, feeling a cold knot in his belly as he tucked his shirt into his pants. He reached for his leather shotgun chaps and began to pull them on. As he was buckling the straps he paused and looked at that gap in the line of conchas. He hadn’t told Clint Christian about that missing concha, but he knew where it had to be. It must have been when Pop Moran fell against him and his scrabbling fingers had snapped it loose when he had fallen. Sooner he replaced it the better; before someone else began to wonder. He finished tightening the straps and reached for his gun rig, glancing at Whip. “Who sent the wire?”

  “Irish. The barkeep from up in Yuma.”

  Hess nodded. “Just the two comin’?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Hess nodded slowly. “Well, Clint paid us extra to take care of anyone like that. You’d better round up a couple more boys.” Whip looked dubious. “Hell, Frank, we didn’t expect anyone from Wells Fargo to be comin’ so soon! Means they know more than we figured. I reckon we should vamoose, clear the State and get over to New Mexico or up to Colorado.”

  Hess looked at Whip narrowly. “We made a deal. Clint kept his part and paid us our shares. We gotta do right by him now. You go get Tex and Rafe. Pronto.”

  He dropped a hand to his gun butt and Whip nodded slowly, lifting a hand. “Okay, okay. But they ain’t gonna like it any better than me.”

  Hess stepped forward swiftly and his gun barrel slammed brutally across Whip’s kidneys. The girl in the bed gasped in alarm as Whip doubled over, face grimacing in pain. Hess shoved him roughly against the wall and snapped his gun up. He held him there with the gun barrel pressed into the flesh under the man’s jaw.

  “You don’t have to like it, Whip!” he gritted. “You just do like you’re told. You took your share, now you stick to the deal. Because there’s another part of the deal I’ll remind you of, too. Anyone who does anythin’ to risk the necks of the others gets a bullet ... Savvy?”

  Whip nodded slowly, scared of Hess. “I savvy, Frank.”

  ~*~

  It was a long trail to Tombstone with two night camps before they reached the last mountain range that stood between them and Tombstone, wildest town in Arizona.

  Dakota Haines hadn’t said much but that didn’t surprise Nash. Haines wasn’t noted for his conversation but Nash knew his mind was working on the problem. Clay Nash, too, had been giving some thought to tracking down Hess once they reached Tombstone. There was more than one ‘cat-house’ in the town, in fact it was infested with so-called ‘sporting houses’ and it wasn’t always easy getting past the tough hombres on guard.

  So Nash figured they would have to watch their step. The place was like a rabbit-warren and many a corpse was found lying in a dark alley, naked and robbed of all valuables and identification. Not that he and Haines couldn’t take care of themselves, but a man couldn’t dodge the bullet he didn’t see coming and Tombstone seemed to be a favorite place for assassins and dry-gulchers.

  They rode into the foothills of the range and Nash noted how the timber thickened from scrub and brush into heavy stands halfway up the mountain slope. There were sandstone and granite outcrops, with a large basalt ledge overhanging a bend in the trail like some huge natural awning. Nash pointed to the ledge but Dakota Haines had already unslung his sawn-off shotgun and held it one-handed, staring at the ledge.

  “Yeah, that’s the place,” he said. “If anyone’s gonna try at all.”

  “Railroad men stick together,” Nash said. “One of ’em could have sent a wire to Hess, to warn him.”

  Dakota nodded, riding slowly, eyes scanning that ledge, the most obvious place for an ambush. There didn’t seem to be any movement up there or any break in the skyline that couldn’t be a natural formation.

  “This the last place they could lay for us?” Haines asked.

  “The range is,” Nash answered. “Might be some boulder clumps beyond that ledge but it’s the best spot hereabouts. After this, we’ve got nothin’ but alkali for miles.”

  Dakota pursed his lips thoughtfully, eyes narrowing as he scanned the ledge above and ahead. “Wonder if it’s too damn obvious, Clay?” he mused.

  “How come?”

  “Well, we keep our eyes skinned on the most likely spot, because we’re experienced in this kind of thing, but while we’re watchin’, some smart ranny cuts us down from a less likely spot. Happened to Deuce McCoy once down in Laredo. He was ... ”

  A rifle shot cut off his words. It was followed swiftly by three or four more, coming so close together that Nash couldn’t be sure just how many there were. But the lead was close, so close that he caught a glimpse of a trough gouged out of the leather covering his saddle horn as he spilled sideways out of the saddle, dragging his Winchester ’73 rifle from the scabbard as he went.

  Dakota elected to stay mounted, spun towards the trees that hid some of the bushwhackers and cut loose with a barrel of the sawn-off. The thunderous explosion rocked him but handfuls of bark were chewed from several trees as the heavy-gauge shot tore into it. He spurred through the gun smoke and ran his mount for a pile of granite boulders. A man reared up from behind the top of one of the boulders, rifle going to his shoulder. Dakota swayed in leather, fired one-handed across his body, his thick wrist tendons long-used to the violent recoil of the sawn-off.

  The man was thrown backwards as if jerked by a rope and his rifle exploded wildly to one side as his body skidded down one side of the rock, the bloody rags of his clothes fluttering. Dakota ran his mount into the shadow of the same rock, already thumbing fresh loads into his gun.

  Nash had hit and rolled a
short distance and then launched himself headlong over a deadfall. He hit on the other side as lead whined off the log and splinters flew about him. Nash came up onto one knee as a natural extension of his motion and lead burned past his face. He fell as he spun to face the gunman hidden somewhere over to his left and that saved him as the man triggered again. The dry-gulcher was a hell of a lot closer than he had figured, not ten feet away, and the rifle muzzle seemed to explode almost in his face as he fell forward.

  The bullet whipped his hat off his head and Nash shoved his rifle around to the front, laid the foresight on the man who was levering in a fresh shell, and triggered. The man spun as he was hit but it wasn’t a mortal wound and, grimacing and cursing, he twisted back, bringing his own rifle over and down to snap another shot at Nash that threw dirt in his face. Clay Nash rolled to his left, came rocking back to the right again and squeezed off another shot. This time he made no mistake. He saw the man’s face dissolve in a mask of blood and gristle as the bullet took him through the bridge of the nose and he didn’t even wait for the man to fall as he leapt up and ran forward, crouching, deeper into the timber.

  Dakota Haines wasn’t staying still, either. He had dismounted now and was dodging from rock to rock, having heard one of the bushwhackers making a run for it after he had downed the first man. Likely the killer hadn’t figured on tangling with a shotgun and he was aiming to cut out pronto. But Haines had other ideas, dodged between two rocks and dropped flat as a gun roared close by. The lead spanged off the rock and he heard the lever on a rifle working fast, spotted the man and threw down with the sawn-off. The killer saw the yawning barrels of the shotgun poking in his direction and he didn’t wait to complete the cycling action of the rifle’s lever system. He dropped the weapon and, with a small animal cry, turned and ran. Dakota eased off on the trigger, leapt atop the nearest rock and saw his man in a small clearing running flat out downslope towards a bunch of four tethered horses.

  Dakota took a swift sight, let off the right hand barrel. The man screamed as the buckshot kicked his legs out from under him and he crashed to the ground, rolling and continuing to scream, clawing at his shredded and bloody trousers. Dakota Haines ejected the empty case, thumbed home a fresh load before casually climbing down from the rock and walking slowly across the clearing towards the wounded man.