Clay Nash 19

by Brett Waring

  Coe heaved another sigh. “Settlin’ day, huh?”

  Nash smiled mirthlessly. “Mebbe. Depends how much you help. Remember I saved your neck from getting stretched.”

  “And put me in a livin’ hell, ever since,” the man whispered harshly. “I can’t hear a noise in the night without breakin’ out into a sweat. I don’t sleep well, my belly’s all churned-up ... got no appetite ... and I get the shakes every time a few of the old bunch hit town and have to run for cover till they go. Yeah, you saved my neck, Nash, but sometimes I ain’t so sure you done me a favor.”

  Nash bored his eyes into the man’s narrow face. “I did. You thought so at the time. Now I want help.”

  Coe nodded. “Okay, okay. But don’t do nothin’ to make me lose my job, huh? I mean, I ain’t exactly thrivin’ here, but there’s a gal—aw, only a saloon hooker, but we kinda get along pretty good and maybe we’ll get a preacher to tie the knot one of these days. I—I’d appreciate it, Nash, if you could sorta keep that in mind.”

  “Depends on you,” Nash said flatly. “I’m looking for someone.”

  Coe lifted a hand. “If it’s anythin’ to do with Wells Fargo robberies, I can’t help you. Honest Injun, Nash. I ain’t had a thing to do with ...”

  “No, it’s not that. I dunno yet who it is I’m looking for. He don’t have a name. I don’t know if he even exists. But I reckon you can help me find him if he does.”

  Coe frowned. He was intrigued but a mite puzzled. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

  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 stared, his mouth hanging open a little, but his eyes were blank.

  “I need this hombre, Nate. And I need him now.”

  Coe blew out his cheeks and slowly shook his head.

  “What the hell you want him for? And what’s in it for him?”

  Nash shrugged. “Depends. If he’s wanted, likely I can square things away for him. Some, anyway. If he’s clean, I’ll pay him whatever he asks. Within reason. But he’s got to do exactly as I say. No quibbles, no questions. Just blind obedience.”

  Coe laughed. “Man like you want ain’t the kind to just follow you blindly.”

  “Mebbe not. But he’ll have to keep all his questions till the chore’s over—if he comes with me.”

  “Comes? Where?”

  Nash’s leg shot out under the table and Coe sucked down a sharp breath as the detective’s boot smashed painfully into his shin. He reached down swiftly and rubbed hard. One of the bouncers who’d been watching from his station near the stairs began to move forward.

  “Tell him to stay out of it,” Nash gritted.

  Coe forced a tight grin. “It’s okay, Milt. Private talk, is all. No harm done.”

  The bouncer raked beady eyes over Nash, sniffed through a broken nose and turned back to his station.

  “Quit wastin’ time, Coe,” Nash said. “You worked all over the place, with a lot of curly wolves. You must know someone who fits the bill.”

  Coe was silent for a spell, his fingers tapping lightly against the table top. While he thought about it, Nash ordered two whiskies and paid for them.

  Coe reached for his whisky and tossed it down in a single gulp.

  “There’s one hombre ...” he said slowly. Then he raised his eyes to Nash’s face. “Will this square me away, Nash?”

  The Wells Fargo man smiled thinly. “I reckon I might call on you again some time. Depends.”

  Coe bit back a curse. “Yeah! Like for the rest of my life.”

  Nash shrugged. “At least you’re alive. And for that I reckon you should be grateful, friend.”

  “All right. 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.”

  “By Judas, Clay!” exclaimed Jim Hume as Nash walked into his office. “Where in hell you been these last couple of days? Been lookin’ everywhere.”

  Nash hooked a chair with a scuffed boot and dropped into it with a weary sigh. He removed his hat and wiped a forearm across his sweating brow.

  “I’ve done a mite of travellin’, Jim.”

  “That much I guessed,” Hume said sourly. “You might’ve let me know where you were. I knew you didn’t mean that about lettin’ Farrell handle things himself.”

  Nash looked at him soberly. “Meant it at the time. I was good and mad. I didn’t aim to come back—even if it cost me my job, Jim. But I got to thinking about that little gal. I knew Farrell would louse it up if I left him stranded. Knew you wouldn’t have another man to assign to the deal. That gal worries me: she’s the pawn in this damn game between Farrell and Brewster. Farrell might care for her in his own way—even though it’s a mighty queer way to my way of thinkin’, but I guess my opinion don’t make no never mind right now. All I know is he’s plumb scared of Brewster.”

  Hume frowned. “Luke Farrell scared?” He shook his head. “That don’t gel, Clay. He’s a mighty tough hombre.”

  “Seems to be. But he’s willin’ to risk his daughter’s neck before his own. He knows if he pays that ransom, Largo’ll kill him. The gal, too, likely. He knows if he doesn’t handle the payment, Largo might still kill the gal ... as he sure as hell will once he finds out he’s got lead and not gold. But Farrell’s depending on me getting the gal out of there before that happens.”

  “It’s your job to do that, Clay,” Hume told him.

  “I don’t need no reminding, Jim,” Nash retorted curtly.

  Hume held up a placating hand. “Sorry. But seems to me you’re spending an awful lot of time hatin’ Farrell instead of gettin’ on with organizing the deal.”

  Nash regarded his boss with narrowed eyes. “You know I do things my way, Jim. Like I said, I decided I can’t walk out and leave that gal as Largo’s prisoner. She’s good as dead if I do. So I been movin’ around some. Ain’t found anyone yet who knows where this Tomahawk Canyon is, but I might be lucky.”

  Hume sat forward in his chair. “How’d you know about that? You quit town before Farrell had even told me what was in the message.”

  Nash grinned. “I stopped off at his suite before I quit. Knew he’d be talkin’ and cussin’ about me to you for a spell and I knew Sawtell was here to deliver the instructions. The note was on Farrell’s desk.”

  Jim Hume laughed and shook his head. He stood up and crossed to the sideboy, pouring a stiff brandy for Nash and bringing it over to him. The operative nodded his thanks and drank deeply.

  “What else you been doing?” Hume asked as he went back to his desk.

  “Looking for help.”

  “What? Now, Clay, this is s’posed to be kept among ourselves

  “I can’t do it alone, Jim.”

  “Then I’ll get someone to be your sidekick. Dakota Haines, if necessary, though he’s about fixin’ to move ...”

  Nash was already shaking his head. “I went through the Wells Fargo men, Jim. None of them are suitable. The man I want has to be ruthless. A killer, I guess. But he must be someone who also enjoys the danger of a situation where it’s kill or be killed
. I don’t want to hire just another fast gun: I want a real mean cuss who can be as ornery as Largo Brewster and his bunch. Maybe worse. It’s the only way we’re gonna get that gal free. It’s the only chance she has, the way I see it.”

  Hume was staring hard at his top operator.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Clay.”

  “Well, I’ve found the hombre I want—but he’s in the State Pen. I want you to get him out so’s he can work with me on this.”

  Hume’s mouth sagged. “Are you serious?”

  Nash didn’t reply.

  “You know what you’re asking?”

  “You’ve done it before, Jim.”

  “Sure—given time to go through all the red tape. But, hell, man, it’s only days to the delivery of that bullion. I doubt that I could work it ...”

  “Try.”

  Hume threw up his hands. “That’s all I can do. Who is this hombre and what’s he in for?”

  “His real name’s Shell Shannon, but he’s usin’ the name of Danny Currie. I don’t know what he’s in for.”

  Hume was making notes. His pencil paused and he looked up, frowning.

  “Currie? You sure?”

  “That’s the name I was given.”

  “And his real name’s Shell Shannon?”

  “A Texan. Mighty hard hombre. Sells his gun to the highest bidder, but sometimes he does a dangerous chore just for the hell of it, with hardly any money in it for him at all. He’s lived with Injuns, knows wilderness survival, and he’s a dead-shot. He’s the man who fits the bill, Jim, and he’s the one I want.”

  Hume sat back in his chair, threw down his pencil and shook his head.

  “Forget it, Clay. You can’t have him.”

  “Jim, I can’t hope to save Mary Lee Farrell without him.”

  “You’ll have to try. Get someone else.”

  “Why for hell’s sake? You haven’t even bothered to ...”

  Hume cut him short as he sat forward and clasped his hands.

  “Clay—if the man you want is calling himself Dan Currie, then you’ll have to forget all about him being released to help you. They’ll never release him.”

  Nash frowned. “Why? What’d he do?”

  “He’s every bit the hard hombre you say he is, Clay. But less than a week ago he escaped—then tried to assassinate the governor of Wyoming Territory. His horse stepped down a gopher hole during his getaway or they’d never have caught him. I tell you there’s nothing I can do to get him released—not with a crime like that against him. You must see that ...”

  Clay Nash compressed his lips and nodded gently.

  Yeah, he saw it, all right.

  He was just going to have to do it another way.

  His way.

  Five – Nash Makes His Move

  When Clay Nash returned to the Ace High Saloon in Bear Paw, one of the bouncers was busy throwing out a drunk. The man looked like a townsman and was much smaller than the bouncer but the saloon man was beating him relentlessly. He slammed the little man off the tables, into the wall by the alley door, then pinned him there by the throat with one hand while he pounded his midriff time and again with the other fist.

  The man was coughing blood by the time the bouncer kicked open the alley door and flung him into the darkness. Then, not satisfied, he dusted off his big scarred hands and wiped his nose on the back of a wrist before stepping into the night after his victim.

  Nash raked his eyes around the smoke-shrouded room and saw that Coe was working his table again—playing out a hand of stud with a group watching. Nash ordered a whisky and beer chaser at the bar, downed the spirits and, taking his mug with him, sipped the cool beer as he walked over to stand by the table.

  He noticed the bouncer returning from the alley dangling a cheap silver-plated pocket watch by a chain and jingling a few coins. He stuffed all the items into his pockets as he strolled to his station against the wall by the stairs.

  Nash shouldered through to the front row of men and stood watching Coe. Pretty soon, the gambler felt the intensity of Nash’s gaze and looked up. His eyes narrowed and he stiffened—fumbling a deal.

  As he made to scoop them up and re-shuffle, the man he was playing with suddenly reached across the table and clamped his hand around Coe’s wrist.

  “Get a new deck,” the man said quietly. The murmurings from the men watching around the table told him they were with him.

  “I just dropped ’em,” Coe said, trying to explain.

  “New deck, mister,” the cowboy said dropping back in his chair and moving a hand to his gun butt.

  It was a mistake.

  In a few moments, the watchers were sent scattering as the big bouncer battered his way through. He dropped a heavy hand to the cowboy’s shoulder and squeezed. The man groaned and tried to get up but his neck snapped over towards his pinched shoulder as more pressure was put on the nerve. The man’s hand splayed away from his gun butt and the bouncer looked at the gambler.

  “What’s the trouble, Herriott?” he asked.

  “I just dropped the deck. Honest mistake, is all,” Coe explained as a tall man in flowered vest and black-string tie came to the edge of the crowd. Coe spotted him and paled, shooting Nash a filthy look as he ran a tongue over his lips and nodded to the new arrival. “Er—Mr. Magee ... it’s all right, sir. Hammer has things under control.”

  Magee, obviously the saloon owner, set his bleak gaze on Coe’s face. “I don’t like my house men fumblin’, Herriott. I’ve told you before.”

  “I—I just got a surprise to see someone, was all,” Coe tried to explain. He looked at Nash and Magee flicked his gaze to the Wells Fargo man, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

  Nash shrugged. “I thought he was someone named Coe. But everyone’s callin’ him Herriott, so I guess I was mistaken.”

  Coe swore and made a lunge at Nash. He had to get past Magee to do it and his elbow jostled the saloon owner, hooking him on the jaw. Magee’s eyes blazed and he jerked his head at the bouncer. Hammer immediately released the moaning cowboy and lunged for Coe, his big hands reaching ...

  Nash smashed the heavy base of his beer glass onto the back of Hammer’s nearest hand. The man screamed and spun towards the Wells Fargo agent. Nash smashed him in the middle of the face with the big beer mug and Hammer flailed backwards, his arms jerking and blood spurting from his crushed nose.

  Another bouncer was fighting his way through the packed crowd and clubbed Coe on top of the head with a clenched fist—then went in after Nash. The Wells Fargo man ducked the swing, came up inside the man’s guard and hammered him with both fists in the midriff. All the bouncer did was grunt and clamp his arms around Nash in a massive bear hug. He lifted the Wells Fargo man off the floor, and began crushing him with such force that Nash thought his ribs would break. He couldn’t move his arms. He used his knees as well as he could but he was too close to do much damage. The man bared his teeth and the iron vice tightened. Nash’s senses were swimming as he squirmed and struggled to get free. Then he snapped his head down into the other’s face, laying his bony forehead across the bridge of the bouncer’s nose. He felt the arms slacken and he drove his forehead down again, feeling the warm blood spurt.

  The bouncer staggered, his legs buckling a little. Nash squirmed and heaved, then finally broke the grip and lurched free. He gagged for breath, then saw the bouncer rearing up. He spun swiftly, palming up his Colt and smashing it side-on against the man’s bullet head. The bouncer stopped dead, looked around with shocked eyes, then collapsed unconscious in the sawdust.

  Hammer was just pushing off the wall and reaching for his guns. But Nash had already cleared leather and his Colt spat fire into Hammer’s leg. Men dived for cover and jammed the doors as they tried to get out of the saloon. Magee pressed back against the wall, his hands shoulder high and his eyes wide with fear.

  Nash ignored him. He grabbed Coe and shoved him towards the door.

  “You’re finished here, Herr
iott,” Magee hissed. “Finished. And don’t try to collect any back pay, you four-flusher.”

  Coe turned to argue but Nash kicked him then shoved him into the alley. Men who had already left and were creeping back to look in windows, hurriedly made way as Nash and Coe pushed through to Main. Finally Nash gripped the gambler’s arm.

  “You got a room someplace?”

  Coe nodded slowly, still a trifle dazed. Nash rammed his Colt barrel into the man’s side.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  The room was a dingy affair at the southern edge of town, a second floor level at the rear of a rundown boarding house. Nash shoved Coe onto the bed and placed a boot on the lone straight back chair. Coe rubbed at his neck and the top of his head.

  “You son of a bitch. You lost me my job.”

  “You’ll find another,” Nash said easily. “Wasn’t much of a job, anyway, Coe. You need a lot more practice at dealin’ from the bottom of the deck. I saw you twice before you dropped them cards.”

  Coe flushed. “What the hell you want? What you ridin’ me for?”

  Nash waved the Colt barrel in front of his face and Coe eased back, watching it warily.

  “You tried bein’ smart with me, Coe, and I don’t like it.”

  Coe nervously shook his head. “Not me.”

  “You. Somehow you forgot to mention that this Shannon hombre—using the name of Currie—was in for trying to kill the Wyoming governor.”

  Coe blinked. “You didn't ask me what he was in for.”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Okay, I knew. Just deliberately didn’t tell you. So what? It don’t matter, does it?”

  “Sure as hell does. I need Shannon out, to help me with a chore I’m doin’. But I got no hope of doin’ a deal now to get him out, even temporarily.”

  Coe nodded slowly. “I savvy. Well, sorry about that. But there’s nothin’ I can do. Even if I’d told you, it wouldn’t’ve changed things.”