by Brett Waring
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
Clay Nash sat back in his chair, dropped his hands to his knees, and studied Coe’s expression.
“I want an assistant. Someone to help me. But he must be the toughest, meanest son of a bitch this side of the Rockies. I don’t mean no trigger-crazy killer. I mean a real ornery bastard—but one with brains. He’s got to be a good shot and not afraid to get a little blood on his hands—if he has to work in close and use a knife. He’s got to know how to survive in rugged country, mountains or desert, afoot, without food or water to weigh him down. And, when he does have a hoss, he’s gotta be able to ride like the wind, just by his knees while he works his shooting-iron, or with the reins in his teeth. Most of all, he’s gotta be operatin’ pretty close to this neck of the woods. I’ve only got a few days, mebbe a week at the outside, to find him.” He paused to let his words sink in, then added: “Know anyone who’d fit the bill?”
Coe reached for his whisky and tossed it down in a single gulp. “Hombre you want is Shell Shannon.”
“Where’ll I find him? I don’t have the time to do much huntin’.”
Coe smiled thinly. “Won’t have to. He’s in jail.”
CLAY NASH 19: LAW OF THE BULLET
By Brett Waring
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Digital Edition: December 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
One – Hate Raid
The man with the red beard settled himself more comfortably among the rocks, dug his elbows into the soft earth, and sighted down the rifle barrel. He took careful aim, lining-up on the head of the unsuspecting nighthawk as the man walked his mount slowly around the cattle herd.
Redbeard was an experienced bushwhacker and he took his time, moving the rifle barrel slowly, keeping the foresight in the center of the rear sight and following the leisurely movement of the nighthawk. It was just about dawn and there was enough light for this job. In any case, the nighthawk’s vigilance was relaxed, for he was expecting to be relieved during the next half hour.
The hidden killer held his breath, began to take up the slack in the trigger, released about half his lungful of air and held it. At that precise moment, his finger squeezed the trigger and the rifle butt slammed back against his shoulder. The muzzle leapt as the explosion ripped across the plains and the nighthawk’s head disintegrated into a cloud of pink pulp and bone.
Before the man’s body hit the ground and his startled mount could lunge away, the killer was up on his feet and running forward. The cattle were scattering, bawling, but the killer had no interest in them. He reached the dead man, picked up the hat that had flown off and grabbed the man’s shirt collar. The killer dragged him back among the rocks and immediately began to strip the man’s clothes from his still-twitching body ...
Across the holding grounds, the second nighthawk spun in his saddle at the sound of the rifle shot that had cut down his pard. He dragged out his six-gun and jammed his heels into the flanks of his mount, lifting the animal into a run, swerving towards a clump of trees and the trail that would take him to the area his companion had been patrolling.
As he rode through the trees, a rope snaked out and settled accurately over his head, snapping tight about his neck. The rope was already tied tightly around the stub of a tree branch and the rider was jerked out of the saddle so fast he didn’t even have time to fire his six-gun in reflex action. It flew from his hand as he crashed to the ground. The body thrashed wildly for a few seconds and then was still. He had been expertly garroted.
The killer stepped out from behind the tree, a tall, lean man with hatchet face and narrowed eyes set too close together on either side of an axe blade nose. He reached down and pulled the noose free from the nighthawk’s broken neck then pulled the man off the trail and began to strip him of his clothing.
Another man came riding out of the brush around a bend in the trail, leading the nighthawk’s horse.
In minutes, the hatchet-faced killer was dressed in the dead man’s clothing. He set the hat on his head, jamming it down, for it was a trifle small, then mounted the nighthawk’s horse. Both men glanced up as another rider came in across the plains, skirting the edge of the restless herd.
It was the man with the red beard and he was forking the mount he’d stolen from the nighthawk he’d killed. He reined down and nodded to the hatchet-faced man holding out his arms.
“Not a drop of blood,” he said. “We ought to be able to get in real close, Largo.”
The other man grunted and looked at the third man, a blocky rider also wearing range clothes, but he was hard eyed and there was a chill about the mean set to his mouth.
“Coley, you ride round and head in from the north with Clint and Bart,” Largo told him in a coarse voice. “Me an’ Brick’ll ride back leisurely-like, give you time to get into the ranch yard. You make sure you hold their attention so Brick an’ me can get mighty close before anythin’ happens, savvy?”
“Got it, Largo,” Coley replied. “How about Lafe and Waco? Will they’ve had time to get up on the ridge yet?”
Largo swiveled in saddle and glanced towards a distant ridge beyond which a thin curl of smoke rose into the pale sky.
“They’re there now or it’ll be too damn late for ’em to get set,” Largo said grimly. “Anyways, they better be. Let’s go.”
The Diamond F was the biggest ranch in that part of Wyoming. However, there were only seven or eight men gathered around the breakfast table in the dog run linking the cookhouse to the main ranch house that morning.
Most of the crew were out in the hills on round-up with the ranch’s owner, big Luke Farrell. The thousands of head of cattle were gathered in preparation for shipping to market at the end of the month. Some of the herd had already been rounded-up and were being held down in the river pasture. The two nighthawks in the area were about due for relief.
Bill Larch, the foreman, entered the dog run and banged on a tub hanging on the wall with his spurs for a bit of quiet and attention.
The joshing, growling, hungry men settled down and looked up as they ate their beans and sowbelly. Larch was a big man in his early forties, tough and loyal to Farrell. He sniffed through a nose that had been broken countless times as he ran green eyes over the group.
“Charley, you an’ Crow get a move on and relieve them nighthawks. You’re runnin’ late already so that means quit joshin’ about an’ get that grub under your belt an’ be ready to move in five minutes. Right?”
The two men nodded and began wolfing their food.
“Rest of you can saddle-up soon’s breakfast’s over an’ ride out to Mr. Farrell in Horsehead Canyon. He’ll tell you where he wants you to work for the day. Likely you’ll swap places with some of the boys on round-up all this week.” Larch consulted his battered notebook and squinted at the penciled scrawl. “Aw, yeah, Rocky, you saddle-up Miss Mary Lee’s roan after breakfast. She’s goin’ ridin’ down by the river this mornin’. You’d better tag along an’ keep an eye on her.”
Rocky, a grizzled
oldster whose skin was almost as dark as an Indian’s, sniffed and nodded, his face disapproving at the chore he’d been given. But he said nothing as he continued to munch his food with toothless gums.
“Right. Let’s shake the dust an’ get movin’,” Larch told them. “I want this table empty in five minutes and all of you on your way to your chores.”
“Riders comin’ in, Bill,” said one of the cowboys on the end of the plank nearest the front of the house.
Larch turned and strolled into the weak sunlight and took in the three riders coming slowly from the north. He thought they looked like cowmen the way they sat their mounts and by their clothes.
He walked across the porch and stood on the steps, leaning a shoulder against an awning post and beginning to build a cigarette as the men walked their mounts slowly into the yard. He noted that the horses were dust-caked, as were the riders, and he figured they had been on the trail for quite a spell.
Behind him, the door opened and a lithe young girl in her mid teens came onto the porch, wearing a small hat with a plaited throat latch on top of her straw-colored hair which fell in loose, natural waves to her shoulders. There was just the suggestion of a smudge of freckles across her pert nose and there was a thrusting defiance about the small chin that spoke of determination—and maybe a young lady who was used to getting her own way. Her youthful figure was blossoming, straining at the white silk blouse, the waist slim, curving into rounded buttocks which showed beneath the whipcord riding britches. The high heeled boots were of hand-tooled leather and the spurs attached to them were solid Mexican silver. She tapped a plaited quirt against her left leg as she gazed around at the morning with the sun just gilding the top of the ridge.
Something suddenly flashed up there but, although she frowned briefly, Mary Lee Farrell didn’t mention it to Bill Larch as he turned to touch a hand to his hat brim.
“Mornin’, Mary Lee. Rocky’ll be saddlin’-up your roan in just a minute or two.”
“Thanks, Bill.” She gestured towards the three strangers with her quirt. “Who’re the visitors?”
“Dunno. Likely rannies lookin’ for work.”
Mary Lee nodded again and stood drinking in the day: she loved early morning on the ranch. It was so much more peaceful, and beautiful than in the Ladies Finishing School back east where she spent much of her year—at her father’s insistence.
The riders had stopped their mounts a few yards from the porch, making no attempt to dismount. They hadn’t been invited to do so. Meanwhile, they touched hands briefly to hat brims and nodded towards Larch and the girl.
“’Mornin’,” greeted Bart Bannion, scratching lightly at his dust-caked beard.
“You fellers after work?” Larch asked, drawing on his cigarette.
Bart nodded but sniffed rather pointedly and glanced towards the cook shack. The cowboys were just coming out of the dog run and heading for the corrals to go about their various chores. Beyond them, two riders were heading in across the flats.
“Yeah. It’s round-up time,” Bart said with a faint smile. “Figured you might be able to use a couple or three extra hands.”
Larch dragged on his smoke. “Left it a mite late. We’ve about got all the men we need, I reckon.”
Bart and his companions looked disappointed and Coley scratched at his jaw. Clint, the third man, rubbed at his midriff.
“We been ridin’ grubline for a long time, mister,” he said. “Sure would appreciate a meal, even if you ain’t hirin’. We’ll work for it: chop wood, muck out your stables, rub down your broncs. I ain’t smelled sowbelly like that in a coon’s age.”
Larch frowned as Mary Lee Farrell stepped forward.
“You men are welcome to a meal and there’ll be no question of you having to work for it,” she said. “There’s plenty to go round,” she added as Larch scowled his disapproval. “You go across to the cook shack and say I sent you.”
Bart Bannion touched a hand to his hat brim. “That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am. We thank you.”
They turned their mounts and started to walk them slowly towards the cook shack. Bill Larch stepped fully up onto the porch, shaking his head.
“Now, Mary Lee, you know you oughtn’t to do that. Your Pa don’t like it. He’ll give drifters a meal, all right, because he’s more or less obligated to by the unwritten law of the land, but he don’t like you givin’ out invitations that way. He’d make ’em earn their meal. It’s fair enough, gal. Him an’ me, we never took no handouts in the old days.”
“Oh, you worry too much, Bill,” the girl told him, smiling as she started down the porch. “Why make men work for grub that would only be thrown out, anyway?”
He began to shake his head and to argue further but suddenly looked past her, frowning. “Now, what the devil …!”
She followed the direction of his gaze and saw the two riders out on the flats. They were much closer now and she recognized them by their clothing as the two nighthawks. She gave the foreman a puzzled frown.
Larch was already stepping down into the yard and striding across towards the corrals. “Damnit, they oughta know better than that. They’re s’posed to stay with that herd until their relief arrives.”
Mary Lee shaded her eyes as she watched the two riders. Men were saddling mounts down at the corrals in a noisy group and hadn’t noticed the two returning nighthawks. The three strangers were dismounting outside the cook shack, dusting themselves off.
Bill Larch, big shoulders set aggressively, strode angrily across the yard. Next instant, he faltered then fell like a heavy log. Mary Lee heard the delayed slap of a rifle shot as it echoed from the ridge. She snapped her gaze towards it, instantly recalling the flash she had seen up there earlier. The rifle fired again, and was joined by a second gun.
She screamed as a man at the corrals, straddling the rails, threw up his hands and pitched to the ground. Bill Larch was lying where he had fallen with blood showing on his shirt between his shoulders.
The three strangers by the cook shack instantly drew their guns. One dived through the cook shack door, his six-gun blazing, cutting down the old cook as he mixed batter for flapjacks. The man sank below table level; his hand caught the bowl of batter and pulled it over him as he almost casually stretched out on the floor as if he were lying down to take a rest. But it was the last rest he would ever take ...
It had been Clint who had killed the cook. Bart and Coley ran towards the corrals as the two riders came thundering in. The terrified girl saw that they weren’t the nighthawks she had thought them to be, but men wearing the same sort of clothes. Coley and Bart triggered fast, sending a hail of lead into the group of men at the corrals. Horses whinnied and reared. Men fell, guns answered them, and Bart staggered as lead took him in the ribs. He kept triggering as he went down, gasping and bleeding badly.
Brick and Largo came thundering in, shooting into the group at the corrals, but veering towards the girl. Mary Lee’s feeling of shock began to pass as she saw that the men were after her and she turned and ran for the house. The Indian maid appeared in the door, her face gray with shock. Largo fired at her, and his bullet took her in the middle of the breast. She went down with a strangled scream as Mary Lee fell, staggered up and ran on towards the porch steps.
Brick grinned tightly as he jumped his mount forwards, got it between the house and the girl and rode onto the porch. Sobbing, the girl veered to the left and tried to reach the corner of the house, the cracking gunfire mingling with the roaring blood in her ears.
A bullet chewed splinters from the edge of the house and she turned away instinctively. Then she heard the loud clatter of hoofs and turned her terrified face as Largo bore down on her. His gun was in its holster and his face was twisted in a mixture of hate and triumph as he leaned out of the saddle and scooped her up. She kicked and squealed and fought and slashed at his face with her quirt.
He swore savagely as the blood flowed down his cheek then smashed his fist against her jaw. Mary Le
e’s head snapped back and she went limp in his arms. He hauled rein and, effortlessly holding her unconscious, slim form, spun his mount around.
Bodies were strewn all over the yard, a concentration of them down by the corrals. Two riders holding smoking rifles came racing from the ridge.
Brick was still sitting his mount on the porch, the horse straddling the body of the Indian maid. He grinned through the dust in his red beard.
“Went off with hardly a hitch, Largo,” he said. “We lost Clint, looks like, an’ Bart’s bleeding mighty bad. Mightn’t make it back home but otherwise we’re all okay.”
Largo Brewster raked his mean eyes around the yard, looking at the bodies of the Diamond F crew. Some of the men moaned and groaned, disabled by their wounds. Most of them lay without moving where they had fallen. The girl hung limply in his arms and he set his mouth in an even harder line as he looked back to Brick.
“Burn the goddamn house,” he ordered harshly. “Run off or shoot his hosses or take what you want for yourselves. Move!”
Brick and the others, including the two men from the ridge, set about looting the big double-storied ranch house and bunkhouse. While they smashed up furniture and glassware for the sheer hell of it, Largo draped the girl’s body face down over his saddle and dismounted. He walked to the hitching post in front of the house, took out a soiled and creased square of paper from his shirt pocket and scouted around by the forge until he located a discarded horseshoe nail. Using his gun butt, he nailed the folded paper to the hitching post.
By that time, flames and smoke were pouring out of the windows of the house and bunkhouse, and Bart had succumbed to his wounds. Largo went back to his horse, looked at the girl’s jaw, jerking her head up by the hair. He saw that she wasn’t seriously hurt, and he rubbed a finger gently along the cut in his cheek left by her quirt. Deftly, he bound her wrists and ankles, then swung into the saddle as his horse reared back nervously from the blast of heat coming from the house.
