Clay Nash 19

by Brett Waring

  “Guess you’re right. Which makes you lucky.” Nash put his boot to the floor and rammed his Colt back in its holster. “How many years did you spend in the State Pen., Coe? I know I put you in twice, once for two years, the other for five but you got out early with the aid of some smart lawyer. How many times besides that?”

  Coe shrugged. “Dunno. Spent more’n half my life in one pen or another ...”

  “Not interested in ‘one pen or another’—just the Wyoming State Pen. And I don’t have all damn night.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get riled ... Why, I guess I’ve totaled mebbe ten years there. What you want to know for?”

  “Then you’d know it mighty well, huh?”

  Coe smiled ruefully. “Better than some towns I’ve lived in.”

  Nash nodded. It seemed to be what he wanted to hear. He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Coe who unfolded it slowly.

  “I want you to draw me a plan of the prison, then a detailed drawing of that cell block, with the cell named there marked, in relation to all doors and corridors and positions of gates in the outside walls.”

  “Judas!” Coe snapped his head up. “What the hell you gonna do? Break Shannon out?”

  Nash gave him a sober look.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re loco. You’ll never do it.”

  “Likely not. Leastways, not alone. But with a sidekick who knows the place as well as you do, I figure we could pull it off.”

  Coe went white and scrabbled back on the bed, pressing against the wall and vigorously shaking his head.

  “You’re plumb loco,” he grated, his voice cracking with intensity.

  “It’s the only way I can get him out fast enough to help me on this chore. No time for red tape—and no hope of success if we had.”

  “But you’ll never bust in there. And you’ll have to get in before you can bust Shannon out. Leastways not if you’re as pushed for time as you reckon.”

  “I sure as hell am, so start drawin’ up that plan. And I mean now.”

  Coe was slow in moving, so Nash grabbed him by the shirt collar and heaved him clear off the bed. Shaken, the man scrambled to a battered trunk and took out a pad and pencil. Looking at Nash warily, he sat on the edge of the bed with the pad on his knees, paused for a few moments’ recollection, then began to sketch the prison layout. Nash stood over him, watching every pencil stroke.

  “It’ll never work,” Coe muttered, glancing up. Nash shoved his head down again, indicating that he was to keep drawing.

  “You want to talk, do it while you’re still drawing,” Nash snapped. “Time’s runnin’ out faster than you think.”

  “Well, look, Nash, like I said, it ain’t gonna work. Shannon’s in solitary, that’s what the ‘S’ means in front of that number you gave me.”

  “I know that.”

  “But the solitary cells are way down below the main floor, carved out of solid rock, with steel plate doors and just a peephole. You’ll never get ’em open without a key—or dynamite.”

  “I’ll be taking dynamite with me,” Nash admitted, “but I figure to get me the key to Shannon’s cell.”

  Coe shook his head. “Guards everywhere—even before you get to solitary.”

  “They’ll be kept busy,” Nash assured him. “And one thing about solitary’s goin’ to work in our favor. The fact that it’s carved out of solid rock and has steel doors probably makes the guards figure it’s escape proof. There’re only two guards there: one outside the door that leads down to the isolation cells, the other outside the row of cells themselves.”

  Coe snorted. “Man, you got to get over a twelve foot wall topped with barbed wire before you even get into the grounds. Unless you got some way of havin’ ’em open the gates for you? Maybe give you a real welcome, huh? And there’re guard towers with two men apiece at each corner of the compound. Then, don’t forget the guards on the doors leading into the prison buildings, and all those off-duty in their own quarters. Then there’s the prison governor ... Aw, hell, Nash, it’s stupid to even think about.”

  Nash shoved Coe’s head down again. “Keep drawing.”

  The pencil began sketching in the prison layout again and Coe kept dolefully shaking his head.

  “I can’t help you in this, Nash,” he said after a spell. “Not on the break-in and break-out. I—I don’t never want to do more time behind bars. It’s why I made the State’s Evidence deal with you. I knew life’d be hell afterwards, that I’d have to always be on my guard in case someone tried to square away with me for squealin’, but I figured that was better than bein’ locked away again ...”

  “You do this, Coe, and you’re all squared-away with me. And there’s two thousand bucks in it for you. A thousand before we go in, the rest waiting for you when we get out.”

  “S’posin’ I get caught inside?”

  Nash smiled crookedly. “Then you won’t have no use for that second grand, will you?”

  Coe was still scared, but the offer of the money had tempered his fear considerably. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money in the 1880s out West. There was a heap a man could do with that kind of dinero. And Coe had some idea about marriage, or settling down, leastways, with his dance hall gal ... Suddenly, he smiled crookedly and looked up.

  “Two thousand ain’t enough,” he said. “If it’s worth your while payin’ me to help, it’s gonna cost you five.”

  Nash gave him a cold smile. “I don’t deal, Coe. Two grand. Or I’ll trump up some charge on you right now and get you put behind bars for the rest of your life. You know I can do it.”

  Coe went gray and his lower lip trembled as he ducked his head and continued to draw.

  Luke Farrell stormed into Hume’s office in Cheyenne without knocking and glared as he slammed the door behind him.

  “What’s this all about, Hume?” he demanded. “I’m a busy man, damn busy, as you ought to know. I’m still making preparations for the delivery of that ransom and I don’t have time to be answering summonses to appear in your office at a specified time of the day.”

  Hume, sitting relaxed behind his desk, motioned to the leather chair opposite.

  “Sit you down, Mr. Farrell,” he said quietly.

  The rancher grunted, turned towards the chair—and stopped dead.

  “Nash.”

  Clay was lounging by the window. Farrell’s face reddened.

  “What the hell’re you doin’ here? I thought it was finished as far as you were concerned?”

  “Decided to go through with it. My way,” Nash told him easily. “Why don’t you sit down, like Jim suggests? We can talk easier.”

  Farrell glared, but Hume knew it was a relief to the rancher to have Nash tell him he planned to still go through with the delivery. The chief detective also knew that Farrell hadn’t had any luck finding anyone to replace Nash—no matter how much he offered. Everyone he approached figured the risk was too great.

  For a time it had looked as if Farrell would have had to handle the delivery himself—and Hume realized the man simply wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.

  “Well, what is this?” Farrell demanded, crossing his legs and leaning back in the leather chair, his mouth set in grim lines.

  “I’m as much in the dark as you are, Mr. Farrell. Clay just asked that we meet him here at this time.”

  Farrell grunted. “If I’d known he’d be here, I wouldn’t have come.”

  “Which is why I asked Jim not to mention me,” Nash said easily. He leaned his hips against the window sill and folded his arms. “Farrell, I’ll go through with this delivery if I’m able ...”

  “If you’re able?” the rancher snapped.

  “Well, I’ve gotta do something first that contains a high risk. It’s possible I might not get back.”

  “What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” Farrell demanded.

  Nash sighed. “If you let me get on with it, you’ll mebbe find out. You don�
��t need to know the details of what I’m going to do and,” he glanced towards Hume with a crooked smile, “it’s likely better that Jim don’t know, but I want something and I want it here, in this office, day after tomorrow. Without fail.”

  Hume was frowning as deeply as the rancher. “Clay, mebbe I better get some details from you ...”

  Nash shook his head. “Believe me, Jim, it’ll be better if you don’t.”

  Hume sat back with a worried frown, his eyes boring into Nash who was speaking directly to Farrell.

  “This is going to cost you a little money.”

  Farrell’s lips clamped into a thin line. “How much?”

  “At least two thousand, likely two-and-a-half.”

  The rancher was already shaking his head. “Out of the question.”

  Nash looked at him levelly. “Farrell, if you want your daughter back, it’s going to cost you two-and-a-half thousand bucks. Either that, or a hundred thousand in real gold bullion. Now, Mary Lee’s life hangs by a thread, thanks to you riggin’ this damn lead ingot deal, and I’ve been suckered into it against my will. I’m doing this to help that little gal, not you. You already know that. But I know now that if I walk out, you won’t have any choice but to pay over the real gold. So, you willin’ to listen? And cough up?”

  Farrell took a hell of a long time to answer. It was only when Nash scowled, swore softly, and pushed off the window, making for the door, that the rancher nodded tightly.

  “All right. I agree. But I want to know exactly what I’m spending my money on.”

  Nash shook his head and glanced at Hume.

  “I hope the Good Lord threw away the mould when he made this hombre,” he gritted then gestured curtly for the angry rancher to stay in his chair. “Aw, sit down, you old fool, and listen.” He walked across, placed a hand on each arm of Farrell's chair and spoke directly into the man’s taut face. “I need two thousand to pay someone to help me. And I need up to five hundred more—or should I say you need it—to buy a gun.”

  “What the hell kinda gun costs five hundred bucks,” exploded the rancher.

  “A mighty special kind,” Nash said. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Farrell. “It’s all in there. I want a half-stocked, Remington Number Three Improved Creedmoor-Hepburn ... You’ve likely never heard of it, but anyone who’s done any target shooting has and I happen to know the Remington agent in Cheyenne can get one for you in the time I specified.”

  Farrell looked up. “What’s so special about this rifle? Target gun, did you say?”

  “Best in the world,” Nash replied. “The Improved Number Three, not the regular range gun, Farrell. It’s got to be the long-range one.”

  Hume was frowning as he listened, watching Nash—very closely.

  “Clay, I think we better talk over what you’ve got in mind,” he said slowly.

  “No, Jim, it’s better if we don’t.”

  “I’m startin’ to get a picture here that I don’t much like,” Hume said grimly.

  Nash met and held his gaze. “That’s why it’s better that you don’t get confirmation from me. If anything goes wrong, you won’t be involved.”

  Hume slammed a fist onto his desktop. “By hell, Clay, if it’s what I think, it’d better not get even started. End it now, before it gets a chance to go wrong.”

  Nash was already moving towards the door, smiling crookedly. He gestured to the bewildered Farrell and the slip of paper he held.

  “Make a special stage available for him in case he has to go chase up that weapon, Jim. Time I was goin’. Adios!”

  “Clay, goddamn it! You come back here.”

  Hume rushed around his desk but Nash had already closed the door and the detective chief could hear his boots clattering down the outside stairway. He knew Nash would be halfway out of town before he could set anyone after him—and that it wouldn’t do any good, anyway.

  Nash was moving on his plan and no one could stop him.

  No one.

  Six – Touch of Hell

  The State Penitentiary was in the middle of a vast, desolate plain fifteen miles north-west of Cheyenne. The location had been deliberately chosen because the plains were so barren that they offered very little cover for anyone either approaching—or leaving—the confines of the prison.

  It had started out as a stockade of high, sharpened wooden stakes, but, as the prison population increased, the stockade stakes were removed and the perimeter extended. Stone and log buildings were put up inside with convict labor and, eventually, a solid, granite complex was constructed, the walls rising twelve feet vertically from the plain, with a wooden guard box at each corner and barbed wire strung between. The gates were heavy timber with massive, hand-wrought iron hinges, although there was a smaller access gate.

  Inside the main walls, there were other gates and passages leading to the various cell blocks and administration offices. All were guarded, as was the long wooden dormitory that housed the chain gang, the workers who dug in the quarry outside the walls.

  The quarry was dark and deserted at night, but, set in a niche in the granite wall was a small door that had two words painted on it:

  DANGER - EXPLOSIVES

  Nash and the nervous Nathan Coe crouched in the shadows cast by the quarry walls and the piles of broken rock. They were dressed in drab, coarse gray uniforms with small caps of the same material on their heads. A metal badge on the front of the cap read Guard.

  Clay had a sawn-off shotgun slung on his belt by a brass dog clip and his six-gun was rammed inside his waistband under his shirt. Their horses were tethered in a draw two hundred yards away but they had brought the gear they would need with them to the quarry.

  Coe’s hands were shaking as he handed Nash one of the sticks of dynamite and a length of fuse. Nash had more dynamite with him and still more in his saddlebags.

  Coe had confessed that working with explosives had always made him nervous—but Nash figured it was the nearness of the prison building that bothered his companion more than anything.

  Nash worked by feel, expertly slitting the stick of dynamite and pushing the detonator down after crimping the fuse to it in his teeth. Coe was busy scraping a small shallow in the stone beneath the door, using a short cold chisel.

  It was a still night and the scraping noise seemed loud but Nash knew it wouldn’t carry to the guards on the prison wall, half a mile away.

  He pushed Coe inside without a word, knelt and felt the groove the man had made then indicated that he should make it deeper. The man swore and went to work again, coughing in the rising dust, but muffling the sound. Nash prepared two more dynamite sticks, and when the groove was deep enough, he pushed the first stick carefully under the door. He repeated the move a number of times then paid out more fuse from the coiled length he held.

  Coe was already standing behind one of the rock piles and Nash smiled slowly as he cut off the fuse, laid it along the ground and then knelt and, shielding the flame with his body, touched a vesta to the end. The fuse took a little time to catch and then it glowed and began to sputter, the red spark travelling ahead of its spiraling smoke train along the course of the fuse.

  Nash turned and ran after Coe who was already across the quarry and climbing up to the plain. The Wells Fargo man overhauled him and they went over the rim together, following a dry wash towards the looming bulk of the prison. According to Coe, the guards would be hunkered down in their towers for coffee and a cigarette—smuggled up to them by one of the convict trusties who had all-night kitchen duty. In return, the man was given small favors ...

  Clay Nash could only hope that Coe was right, because if he weren’t the guards could easily spot them as they came up out of the wash and ran across open land towards the shadow of the prison walls. He hoped, too, that he had judged the length of that fuse correctly. If it exploded too soon, they would still be seen by the guards attracted by the noise ... and the flames.

  But they made it into the deep,
black shadow of the front prison wall and fell against the granite, panting and sweating.

  There were two wooden buildings in the quarry, a tool shed and a kind of kitchen-and-dining shed combined where the convicts ate when it was too hot or if it rained. The prison governor had long since learned that ill-treating prisoners and working them in all kinds of bad weather only made for a lot of illness and sometimes caused deaths. Such events occasionally brought inquiries that weren’t always welcome.

  Nash and Coe had set fuses in coal oil bottles in both buildings and they hoped they would blow at about the same time as the dynamite, adding to the confusion.

  Crouching by the wall, Nash felt his teeth tugging at his lower lip as he waited: it couldn’t be much longer, he thought. Surely. Unless the fuse had gone out or the first detonator cap had been faulty, or maybe one of the other ...

  There was an abrupt, shattering explosion from the depth of the quarry and the blast wave smashed against the prison walls and knocked Coe and Nash off their feet. Neither had expected such a blast but even through the savage ringing in his ears, Nash figured the explosions store must have been full to capacity. It had probably been jam-packed with kegs of black powder as well as cases of dynamite. Flames belched high into the air and there was a pattering sound like a particularly heavy rain storm as stones and clods of earth showered down. Glass shattered in the guard towers in the blast wave and even the huge wooden gates trembled in their frames. Two duller explosions, almost drowned by the shattering effects of the main blast, indicated that the coal oil had gone up ...

  There was utter confusion behind the walls. The guards were shouting across to each other and one man said he was badly cut by flying glass. There was a lot of yelling from in the compound and Nash and Coe pressed flat against the granite as they heard an authoritative voice bawling.

  “Get the fire pump over there and see what in hell’s goin’ on.”

  Minutes later, the fire from the quarry lighting the edge of the wash with a reddish glow, the big gates creaked and clattered as the bars and bolts were drawn. One side was swung open and a team of straining, sweating men, trundled out the heavy fire cart—a massive wooden-staved water tank with long pump handles running down either side, which could be worked by six men at a time.