by Brett Waring
“You’ve obviously got some sort of bee in your bonnet. Tell me about it. I might decide to help you.”
“You better, or you could be standin’ in a pile of ashes,” Dakota told her.
She felt a cold chill pass through her body. This man meant every word he said, she could sense that. He wasn’t the kind to make idle threats, and he was unafraid of her men.
“All right, Dakota. What’s troubling you?”
“Maxine Chan.”
He saw her stiffen. “What about Maxine? If you want her, you’re out of luck. She’s not here.”
“That’s okay. Long as you can tell me where she is.”
“I’m afraid not. She isn’t one of my permanents.”
“Doesn’t Clint Christian think so?” Dakota put in swiftly and he saw her body stiffen again and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him.
“Clint Christian? He doesn’t come here.”
“Then Maxine Chan goes to him. I want to know where he is.”
“Are you a lawman?” she asked tightly.
He stared at her. “Would a lawman blast down one of your guards like that? Don’t ask questions, lady, just answer ’em.”
She shrugged. “Well, I don’t know where Maxine goes when she’s not here. I haven’t seen her in six weeks.”
Haines gave a mirthless grin and walked across to her. She sat stiffly in the chair as he leaned down and ran a fingernail lightly down her cheek. She shivered but didn’t take her eyes from his. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, the cheroot burning unnoticed in an ashtray. Dakota still held that cold, mirthless smile.
“You’re lyin’,” he said and abruptly grabbed her chin in his hand and half lifted her out of the chair. Her eyes showed fear and she struggled and clawed at his hand but he pushed the sawn-off’s barrels into her stomach and she froze. “I know Maxine was here two-three weeks back. Now, you’re a handsome woman, ma’am, but that could change pronto if you keep on tellin’ me lies.” He shoved her back roughly into the chair but continued to lean down, his face only inches from hers. “Now when did you last see that Chinese gal?”
Madame Mustang was breathing hard and fast and took a little time to collect her wits. She had run up against some hard men in her time but this one took the prize. Strangely, she felt the stirrings of a new excitement.
“All right, she was here until a week ago,” she panted suddenly. “Then she got a message. Probably from Clint Christian. She didn’t say. She just packed and left.”
“Where for?”
“Yuma, I guess. She told one of the girls she had a train to catch. And that’s the truth, Dakota.”
Haines met and held her defiant gaze. “It better be,” he said quietly. “If it ain’t, I’ll come back and burn this place down around your ears.”
“It’s gospel! I swear it!”
He looked at her for a long minute and then nodded curtly. As he started to turn away, lowering the hammer on his sawn-off, Madame Mustang got to her feet and was surprised to find how shaky her legs were as she walked after him. He stepped back fast as she reached out to place a hand on his arm. She smiled faintly.
“You do live on your nerves, don’t you? It’s a pity you have to go right away.” She flicked her eyes to the other room and the corner of the brass bed.
Haines’ mouth curved very faintly in a crooked smile and he turned and walked to the door. Madame Mustang sighed and let her shoulders slump. Then she heard the key turn in the lock and a faint smile of triumph touched her full, moist lips as Dakota slowly backed towards her, unbuckling his gunbelt.
Six – Left for Dead
The elderly clerk in the cage of the ticket booth on the Yuma railroad siding scratched his head under the green eyeshade he wore and squinted out into the darkness at the vague shapes of the two men who stood there.
“About a week ago, you say?” he asked.
“That’s what I said,” growled Dakota Haines, moving forward to lean a forearm on the counter of the booth. His sawn-off clunked against the booth and the clerk’s eyes widened as he saw the deadly weapon.
Clay Nash stood silently behind Haines as the clerk swallowed audibly and his seamed face took on an intense look as he cast his memory back.
“Lot of faces pass by this window in the course of a week,” he complained.
“Hell, man, she was a Chinese!” snapped Haines. “How many of them you sell tickets to?”
“Aw, yeah! Yeah, I recollect. Face like a little china doll. Big hat, though, didn’t realize at first she was Chinese ”
“Where’d she go?” Haines cut in impatiently.
“Eh? ... Lessee now ... Chinese gal ... week ago. I got it! Tombstone! She bought a ticket to Tombstone.”
Nash pushed forward, frowning. “You sure, old-timer?” he asked.
“Yep, I’m sure. Tombstone. First class ticket.”
Haines turned to look at Nash. “We’ll—”
“Don’t tell me he was in Tombstone all along!”
Nash looked dubious and glanced back at the clerk. “There are several stops along the way. Any place she could’ve gotten off and changed trains?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so. Dunno where she’d go, though. Only spur tracks that lead off to no place in particular. Freightin’ tracks mainly.”
“He might’ve arranged to meet her at the end of one of them,” Haines said, thoughtfully.
But Nash shook his head. “No. Be too noticeable, a Chinese gal travellin’ on a seven-car freight to nowhere. Besides, none of those places would be much of a hideout for a man as notorious as Christian.”
The clerk stiffened at mention of the outlaw’s name and showed new interest. “You fellers after Clint Christian? You think that gal was on her way to meet him? Hell, reckon I might get me a share of that reward if somethin’ I said helped you nail him?”
“You’d have to say a hell of a lot more than you’ve told us so far,” Dakota Haines pointed out.
The clerk looked disappointed. “Well, I guess so. Too bad I can’t help you. All you can do is ask along the line at each stop if a Chinese gal got off. But half the time there ain’t no one there at them whistle stops and folk drop off without anyone noticin’. Hey! You reckon mebbe buyin’ the ticket to Tombstone was a blind deal? That she did it just to throw you fellers off?” Nash showed interest in that. “Could be, mister! You could have somethin’ there!”
“Mebbe,” said Haines doubtfully. “But where the hell would she go if she didn’t take the train? We know damn well Christian ain’t holed-up here in Yuma, so she had to go someplace else.”
“There’s the weekly stage to Buckhorn Flats,” the elderly clerk said helpfully. “She could drop off the train when it stopped for water at Ball Canyon and pick up the stage there. That is, if she was tryin’ to throw anyone off her trail.”
Haines frowned as he looked at Nash. “What d’you think?”
“I think the old-timer could be right,” Nash said. “Buck Petersen said michauca brush grows around the Buckhorn Flats area. Remember?”
Haines straightened, nodding slowly in agreement. “Looks like we better catch that stage then.”
“Leaves at midnight,” the clerk told him. “Just one week to the day since that gal was in here.”
Nash nodded. “Yeah, looks like Christian timed it for her to get that stage, but told her to cover her tracks some. Dakota, just in case, one of us better ride the train clear through to Tombstone and check all the stops in between to make sure she didn’t get off.”
“We better make sure she got on the train first,” Haines said, looking quizzically at the clerk.
“I’ll go see if I can find out which conductor was on a week ago.” The clerk, stimulated by thought of a reward, went out the rear of his booth. Haines turned back to Nash. “Which one of us takes the stage?”
“Toss you,” Nash said, groping for a coin in his trousers pocket.
~*~
Clint Christian swore as the urgent kno
cking on his door was repeated and he rolled out of the bed, throwing back the covers irritably, not worrying whether he woke the Oriental girl or not. He grabbed his gun from its holster on the chair beside the bed and heard the girl sit up sleepily as he padded across the room, gun hammer cocked back beneath his thumb.
He pressed against the wall on one side of the cabin door. “Yeah?”
“Clint, it’s me ... Laredo,” a voice answered. “You got troubles, pard.”
Christian went to a window and eased back the curtain, looking out into the wan light of early morning. The sun wasn’t yet above the hills but he could make out the shape of Laredo as the man stood back from the door, holding his horse’s reins in one hand. His other hand was empty and raised shoulder high.
The outlaw grunted, didn’t reply as the girl asked sleepily what was wrong, and unhooked the bolt and eased it back. He stepped back fast, gun covering the door.
“Okay, come on in,” Christian called.
The door opened slowly and Laredo stepped into the room, both hands raised above his head.
“It’s okay, Clint. I’m alone. No one followed.”
“They better not or you’re dead!” Christian growled, back at the window and watching the skyline outside. Satisfied, he drew the heavy curtains and told Laredo to light a lamp, giving the man directions where to find it and the vestas. As the orange glow filled the room, Laredo blinked and stared first at Christian with the gun in his hand and then at the Chinese girl sitting up in bed, holding a sheet loosely around her. Her dark hair was disheveled and hung over her face but her doll-like features still showed through as the big, dark eyes stared back at him.
“What’s this trouble?” Christian demanded.
With an effort, Laredo tore his eyes away from the Oriental girl. “Couple of Wells Fargo men. They somehow found out you got a shine for the gal.” He jerked his head towards the girl on the bed.
“How?”
“Hess,” Laredo said. “He tried to bushwhack these two hombres, Clay Nash and Dakota Haines ... ”
Christian swore at mention of Haines. “Big dark hombre with a sawn-off slung on a dog clip?”
Laredo nodded.
“Son of a bitch!” he swore. “I’ve heard of him. A killer, tough as they come. This Nash is no slouch, either. Jim Hume’s white-haired boy. But go on.”
Laredo shrugged. “Well, they killed three men, includin’ Whip, and took Hess in to Yuma. He must’ve talked about the gal, I guess.”
Christian’s mouth was a thin, tight line. “That damn Haines, I guess. Well, that don’t make much difference. Maxine’ll just have to stay with me. Fact is, we’re thinkin’ of takin’ a trip to New Orleans. Might be a good time to get her out of the way where they can’t find her.”
Laredo looked uneasy. “Ain’t as easy as that, Clint. They found out she bought a ticket to Tombstone last week and Haines is on his way there by train now. Nash has taken the stage to Buckhorn Flats to check it out.”
Maxine Chan stirred uneasily, big dark eyes staring at Christian.
“You didn’t cover your tracks well enough, woman!” he snapped and she winced. He turned back to Laredo, took his arm and propelled him towards the door. “I’ll tell you how to take care of them Wells Fargo men ...”
They went out into the early light and the girl sat patiently on the bed, waiting, knowing Christian would beat her for her incompetence. She was at fault, she knew. But she had been so eager to come to Clint, so glad to hear from him that he wanted her again ...
She snapped her head up suddenly as there came the sounds of a lone rider going out of the yard and starting to put his mount up the slope of the trail over the rise. Her eyes were fixed on the door and she tensed as Clint Christian came slowly back into the cabin. He closed the door and pushed his gun back into its holster. He stood there for a minute, looking down at the holster, then he moved with the speed of a striking snake.
His hand flashed out and the back of it caught her across the head. She cried out as the force of the blow sent her flying off the bed. She hit the wall and then thudded to the floor dazed, crouching, shaking her head. Christian walked around the bed towards her and Maxine Chan lifted up her bruised face and waited for him to deal out whatever punishment he thought fit.
~*~
The Buckhorn Flats stage trundled up the first rise of the foothills and a wheel jolting over a rock jarred Clay Nash awake from his doze. He blinked and looked around him, past the other yawning passengers, and saw that it must be close to noon, judging by the brightness and angle of the sun. He stretched and apologized to the matronly woman beside him for nudging her with his elbow. She gave him a vinegary smile in reply.
He eased himself into a more comfortable position on the thinly-padded seat and leaned close to the window in an effort to catch some of the warm breeze. It wasn’t one of Wells Fargo’s coaches and sure wasn’t anywhere near as comfortable as the specially-constructed Concords with their leather thoroughbraces that suspended the passenger section. He didn’t know what kind of suspension this one used but it needed improving, that was for sure.
His saddle rig and warbag rode up top with the luggage, including his Winchester rifle. Could be when he reached Buckhorn Flats he might need to hire a mount and he preferred to have his own saddle rather than some livery outfit’s. He eased his Peacemaker’s butt around a little and the matronly woman next to him shot him a cold look as it dug into her side. He gave her an apologetic smile again and diverted himself by looking at the rest of the passengers.
There was a full complement, six others beside himself. Across from him sat a taciturn cowboy who was obviously nursing a hangover. Beside him was a pot-bellied drummer who had early in the journey earned a sour glare from the lady beside him for telling a smoking-room joke. There was a man about Nash’s age who could have been a banker or an attorney. He said little and spent most of the trip staring out the window beside him. On the other side of the matronly woman sat a young girl holding a squirming boy-child on her lap. She was obviously the older sister and her young brother had decided to give her hell on the coach trip. Up top sat the driver and, since they were carrying nothing of any great value and didn’t need a shotgun guard, another cowpoke sat beside him, hanging onto the iron seat-rail and cussing the dust that boiled up from beneath the hoofs of the team.
Nash figured it was a normal enough stage load and had all the earmarks of being a boring run. The next instant a fusillade of shots ripped out from the rocks and timber beside the steeply winding trail and the women screamed as lead chewed splinters from the coach. Nash dragged his Colt free of leather and unceremoniously pushed the matronly woman down onto the floor. He reached across her protesting form to the young girl and her brother and shoved them down on top of the woman.
“Stay there!” he snapped, turning back to the window as he heard the driver’s wild yell and the coach lurched forward as the team hit the traces. But it was an up-grade and the coach gained hardly any speed. Guns were cracking again and again from trailside and lead whined and thudded around his ears.
The hung-over cowboy was crouched at his window, shooting out, while the drummer was trying to get onto the floor with the women and the man who looked like an attorney had produced a pearl-handled Smith and Wesson Russian Model in .44 caliber and was shooting deliberately out his window.
“Road-agents?” he asked the cowboy as he lined up alongside, holding on with one hand.
“Goddamn Indians!” the cowboy growled and there was surprise in his voice.
Nash was startled, too, as he saw through the timber a line of scantily-clad Indians lying low over their ponies’ backs, shooting at the stage one-handed, whooping wildly.
“Hell almighty!” Nash breathed incredulously, shaking his head as he triggered but saw his lead bite a slice of bark from a tree. “Indians! I damn well wouldn’t’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it!”
“Me neither,” said the cowboy, shooting and cursing almo
st immediately as he missed.
They both ducked as lead thunked into the side of the coach low down and the Smith and Wesson behind them cracked twice in swift succession. The coach was swaying and the driver’s whip was cracking as he yelled to his team. The cowboy up top was still shooting and Nash saw one of the Indians spill from his horse.
“What kind are they?” he asked, firing but missing again because of the blurring timber between him and the racing redskins.
“Look like Mishawkas,” the cowboy said and swore as he missed his man again.
“Mishawkas!” echoed Nash, turning to look at the man in puzzlement, ignoring the bullet that whined off the window sill. “Thought they were peace-lovin’?”
“Me, too, but they’re Mishawkas all right ... Ah! Got you, you sonuver!”
There was a heavy volley of shots and a yell from up top and then the cowboy’s body dropped past the window and thudded to the trail, bouncing and rolling. The man beside Nash swore loudly, ignoring the women’s sensitive ears, and leaned out of the window, yelling:
“Hey, that’s my pard, you bastards! My pard!”
He emptied his gun at the racing Indians before Nash grabbed his belt and heaved him down onto the floor.
“Easy, cowboy! You’ll get your own head shot off!”
Nash drew careful bead on a redskin and blew him out of the saddle. Then the coach lurched and he knew they were off the trail and into the brush. The driver was swearing and hauling back on the reins and the coach tilted dangerously as it bounced over a deadfall and Nash thought he heard spokes crack. Then the vehicle dropped back onto an even keel but slammed side-on into a tree, splintering the door on the attorney’s side and sending the man sprawling on top of the drummer. Then the stage came to a rocking halt and they were all thrown into a tangle on the floor.
Dazed, Nash tried to extricate himself from beneath the cowboy’s leg, groping for his gun which he had dropped in the fall. The cowpoke’s boot pushed into his face and the Wells Fargo man savagely shoved it aside, trying to get on his feet. The women screamed and the men yelled and cussed, and he struggled up just as the door was wrenched open and a masked man appeared with a six-gun. Nash froze. This was no Indian.
