Clay Nash 13

by Brett Waring

  In the morning, the other two stores were open and he asked his questions again. The first one had nothing to offer, and while the second couldn’t help with specific purchases, the man did tell Nash that there was a man in the town of Swordhilt who made wooden toys and had himself a thriving business. He recalled that one of the man’s specialties was wooden guns.

  “I ain’t long opened my store here,” the man said. “Used to have a place in Swordhilt and this feller’d sell toys to me. The guns he made were pretty much like the one you just showed me.” Nash thanked the man and headed for Swordhilt, a three-day ride. He arrived at mid-morning and, after a beer to wash the dust out of his throat went straight to the toymaker, showing the man the wooden gun.

  “Nope, it ain’t mine,” the man said almost immediately. “I put a lot more detail into mine, carve in the loadin’-gate for one thing, fix a length of dowel under the barrel for the magazine tube. But it’s a tolerable job, this one. Looks enough like the real thing to fool you, I guess, if the light ain’t too good.”

  “Or if sticking out from some brush,” Nash added. “Looks like someone could’ve got the idea from you, eh?”

  The toymaker pursed his lips thoughtfully, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “Now that’s possible. I sell most of my stuff to local stores, a couple in other towns not far off. Got a kind of unwritten deal with ’em that I don’t sell direct, you know? I wholesale, they retail.”

  “Sure. What’s the point?”

  “Well, a feller did come in here few weeks back wantin’ to buy one of the guns and I told him he’d have to go to one of the stores. He seemed a mite put out but asked if he could have a close look at one, anyway. Said his nephew had a birthday comin’ up and he’d figured on a wooden gun as a present ... He spent a long time lookin’, then left. I don’t think he bought one.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “As I recollect, he was a mite shorter than you, lean, more rawboned, and he had a sort of—well, his face reminded me of a horse.”

  Nash nodded. “Hair color? Age?”

  “Brown hair, kind of long, and I reckon he’d be in his middle twenties, younger if anythin’.”

  “Thanks, amigo. That could be the feller I’m lookin’ for: anythin’ else that might help me find him?”

  The man shook his head, then snapped his gaze to Nash. “One thing. His hands. Knuckles on the right hand were all kind of scarred. Fingernails were all broken and dirty. Somethin’ like mine.” He held up his hands. “That’s paint and glue and sawdust under there. Now I think about it, that feller had somethin’ similar.”

  “Much obliged, friend.”

  Nash asked around town and a few other folk vaguely remembered the horse-faced stranger. He quit Swordhilt and rode to two more towns without result. But in the third place, Mesquite, he got a lead. The storekeeper remembered a horse-faced man in his twenties buying several broomsticks and lengths of wood, nails—and a coil of the new cotton-twist rope.

  “I’d just gotten in my first shipment and I was ready pushin’ it,” the man told Nash. “I remember that hombre ’cause he didn’t take much talkin’ round. Asked him what he was makin’ but he didn’t say. Kind of mean-eyed. I didn’t push it.”

  “How’d he pay? Cash?”

  “Hell, yeah. I insisted. I don’t give credit to strangers. Matter of fact, he paid me with a brand new twenty-dollar gold piece. One of the new design.”

  Nash stiffened. “With the eagle and Lady Liberty standin’ on the back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Guess you wouldn’t still have that coin around?”

  The storekeeper stared at Nash for a spell and then nodded slowly. “Yeah, I have. It was the first I’d seen so I kept it and aimed to give it to my first grandchild ...”

  “I’d sure like to see that coin, mister.”

  “I don’t want you takin’ it away. I mean, I don’t want another twenty-dollars for it. I want that coin.”

  “You can keep it. Just let me see it.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, the man got the coin and showed it to Nash. The Wells Fargo man only needed a quick glance to know that it was one of the batch that had been stolen from the Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad express van.

  It looked as if his man could have been a member of that gang and cut out to go it alone. Nash had held the theory that they had separated after melting down some of the coins. The man he was after might well have cut out before then, taking his share in the gold coins with him.

  He went to the telegraph depot and sent two wires, one to Walter Garth in St. Louis, the other to Agent Chet Winters in Elwood on the river Mississippi. He asked that Winters keep his eyes peeled for the horse-faced man, or any of the items stolen during the stage hold-up. It seemed there was a connection between the two cases.

  He waited for Garth’s reply, for he had requested information about Jim Hume’s condition. It was not reassuring.

  CONDITION UNCHANGED. PURSUE LINE OF ENQUIRY YOU SUGGESTED. KEEP ME INFORMED.

  Nash’s mouth pulled into a tight line as he read the message.

  Sure—he would follow-through with his enquiries. All the way to hell itself if need be.

  It was going to be a process of elimination, Nash realized, after leaving Mesquite and heading out for the next town. He had been lucky enough to find a store where the broomsticks had been purchased—the storekeeper had had little trouble identifying the brand.

  Nash figured the killer wouldn’t have gone too far from the actual area where he held up the stage, for it would have been an awkward job carrying six wooden rifles on a horse. It could have been done, of course, but, even if wrapped, such a package would invite curiosity.

  So Nash reckoned there were two towns where the man might have constructed the guns—or he might have worked on some remote ranch or in a shack back in the local hills.

  He tried the towns first. In a place named Hatfield Gulch he had no luck at all, so he moved on to the second town which went under the name of Feather Creek. His horse had a cracked shoe so he left it with the smith while he asked quietly around town about the horse-faced man. He was looking for a carpenter or a joiner or at least someone who worked with tradesman’s tools. He drew a blank.

  After downing a couple of beers, Nash stepped onto the porch of the saloon and paused to roll a cigarette. As he did so, he saw a small procession moving slowly down the street towards him. It was a funeral and Nash straightened and removed his hat respectfully until the hearse and gathering of sober faced mourners had shuffled by.

  It was when he was lighting his cigarette that his eyes were suddenly drawn again to the black-painted, glass-sided hearse with its plodding horses.

  The coffin was plain and draped with several wreaths of flowers.

  Nash smoked and waited until the hearse returned. Nash followed the coach down the street then watched it turn into a lane behind a funeral parlor. He went through the big double doors and saw the undertaker unharnessing his team.

  Behind the man was a work area with some completed caskets and some in stages of construction. The area was cluttered with timber and woodworking tools, and shavings.

  “Howdy,” Nash called.

  The undertaker instantly dropped the leather harness, spun about, and brought his hands together as his face took on a look of serenity and mock compassion. His eyes flickered over Nash’s tall form.

  “Yessir? Can I be of help?”

  “Reckon so. First off, relax. I ain’t here to arrange a funeral.”

  The man stared at Nash for a few seconds then unclasped his hands and jerked open his collar with relief.

  “Good. Too damn hot for this regalia. But funerals are all I do, young feller.”

  “Nope, reckon that ain’t right.” Nash gestured to the coffin-making area. “You do woodwork by the looks of things.”

  The man turned, glanced at the clutter, then looked back at Nash, shaking his head. “Got me a man to do that part. And I don�
�t need no extra help.”

  “Not looking for a job, but figured a friend of mine might’ve worked for you not too long ago.” Nash described the horse-faced man and his hopes rose when he saw the flicker of interest on the undertaker’s face. “Recollect him at all?” he finished.

  “We-ell. Did have a feller like that one time. About a month back. Good tradesman, but had to let him go.”

  “How come?”

  The undertaker shrugged. “Too tough. In a lot of trouble in town. Gamblin’ an’ women. He had two gunfights and killed his men. Didn’t look right to the town, him workin’ for me an’ more or less throwin’ business my way. So I told him to vamoose.”

  “What was his name?”

  The man had to think about that. “You know, I never did know it? I mean, we called him Chips ’cause that’s usually what they call a carpenter, and he never did volunteer any other name that I recollect. Nope. Just Chips, that’s all anyone here knew him by.”

  Nash’s disappointment showed. “Reckon you don’t know where he went after leavin’ here?”

  The undertaker shook his head. “Did hear that someone saw him over in Victoria Flats. He got into more trouble there. Another gunfight.” He squinted at Nash. “You sure he’s a friend of yours?”

  Nash smiled faintly. “Not exactly. But I’m obliged for your information, amigo. Nothin’ else you can tell me about him?”

  “Nope. He was a loner.”

  “Well, if you do think of anything else, I’ll be stayin’ at the saloon. I’d be obliged for any other information you can come up with.”

  “There a reward for this feller?” the undertaker asked shrewdly.

  Nash looked at him soberly. “Reckon there is. I’ll see you get your share if what you’ve told me helps me nail him.”

  Nash asked around the bar that night, but no one could add anything to what the undertaker had already told him.

  Chips was a loner, mean when he was drunk, and a heavy gambler. He had a hair-trigger temper and could use a six-gun mighty well.

  Nash gave up after a time and fended off the saloon girls who, after answering his questions, wanted his custom. But he aimed to turn in and be on the trail early the next day.

  He went wearily up to his room and was deep in thought about the information he had picked up in town here when he reached his room. His hand was gripping the handle when he paused, some sixth sense warning him that all was not well.

  It was dim in the hallway, the oil lamps being few and far between, and his door was in shadow. But there was enough light for him to see that the small, worn, threadbare mat outside the door had been kicked crooked and one corner was actually under the bottom of the door. That was it. He had tripped over the mat earlier when leaving his room and had taken the time to straighten it. Its present position indicated that someone else had caught their feet on the curled edge when entering his room ...

  He drew his six-gun and dropped to one knee in an instinctive movement, turning the handle and shoving the door open at the same time. Simultaneously, a gun blasted twice from inside the room and the bullets punched holes in the door panel and the impact closed it again.

  Nash dived for the floor and rolled to one side, reaching swiftly and thrusting the door back again. The gun inside roared again and the bullet gouged a long, splintered furrow in the hall floor. Nash snapped a shot around the jamb into the room and rolled swiftly across the opening, drawing another two shots.

  Five bullets, Nash thought. That meant the man’s gun was either empty or there was only one shot left, depending on whether the killer kept an empty chamber under the hammer or not. From what he knew of bushwhackers and outlaws, very few of them took that safety precaution. They nearly all filled every chamber with a load, wanting the security of that extra cartridge.

  There was only one way to find out what his attacker favored, Nash thought ...

  He dived through the doorway and slid along the waxed linoleum, moving quickly. He twisted to his right as a gun blazed momentarily outlining a man crouched on the far side of the bed near the window.

  The Wells Fargo man’s six-gun thundered in two fast shots as the man reared up. He was flung backwards by the slugs and his body crashed through the window before toppling onto the sloping roof. His body flailed and skidded across the shingles and thudded into the street. Nash kicked out the remaining shards of jagged glass and leapt onto the roof.

  He made a controlled slide down to the guttering, looked over and saw the sprawled body of the attacker in the dust. He gripped the guttering as people began to gather around the man in the street and swung down, landing lightly.

  Nash knelt beside the gunman, feeling for a pulse. There was none. The man’s face had been destroyed by the passage of a bullet taking him beneath the jaw. The Wells Fargo man stood and reloaded his gun as he raked his eyes around at the staring men.

  “Anyone know him?”

  There were murmurings and then one man spoke up.

  “Name’s Hatton, Hondo Hatton. A hardcase. Hangs around town and does a few odd jobs.”

  “Like bushwhackin’?” Nash asked tightly.

  The man nodded slowly. “Word has it he’s done a mite of that.”

  Nash swore. “Anyone’s dollar buys his gun. That it?”

  “You said it, mister. But no more, I reckon. Hondo’s next stop is the undertaker’s, looks like.”

  Nash snapped his head up. The undertaker. He pushed through the gathered men and sprinted down the street to the funeral parlor. The front door was locked but the one at the side was swinging open in the night breeze. He went in warily, with gun cocked, groping his way through the living quarters.

  He found the undertaker under the covers in his bed. It looked at first as though he were sleeping peacefully. Nash fumbled out a vesta, struck it, and touched the flame to the wick of a lamp on the bedside table.

  The amber light showed that the undertaker would soon be filling one of his own coffins. Someone had cut his throat from ear to ear.

  Nash sighed and slowly left the room. As he walked back towards the saloon he figured that only one good thing had come out of the night’s activities.

  It seemed reasonably certain that he was on the right trail.

  Chapter Four – Message of Death

  Walter Garth was reading through some papers bearing the names of men who had threatened to kill Jim Hume. He adjusted his wire-framed spectacles as he scanned the list. It went down one page and over onto another.

  Beside each name was a notation as to the man’s last known whereabouts or whether he was still alive or not. Garth whistled softly as he let the top page fall back then picked up a red pencil. He started ruling lines through the names of men already dead or still in prison. He was halfway down the first page when there was a knock on the door and a wide-eyed clerk poked his head in as Garth looked up irritably.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Garth, sir,” panted the clerk, “but we’ve just had word from the infirmary—Mr. Hume’s showin’ signs of regainin’ consciousness, sir, and the doctor thinks you ought to be there when he comes around ...”

  Garth was on his feet instantly, and had a man drive him to the infirmary. He was taken immediately to a second floor room. The doctor met him at the door, a finger to his lips.

  “He’s coming out of it slowly. Muttering a lot of nonsense now, but there are signs that he might well come round completely and be lucid. I figured you’d want to hear what he has to say.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, I surely do.”

  “Now just remain quiet in the chair at the end of the bed. Allow myself and the nurse to do what’s necessary, and that includes all the talking at this stage. If you don’t intend doing as I ask, then please don’t step past this doorway.”

  Garth nodded at the gray-haired medic. “You’re the boss, Doctor.”

  The medic nodded jerkily and stood aside for Garth to enter and take the indicated chair. A middle-aged nurse was bending over Hume’s head, wiping h
is sweating brow.

  Garth slowly shook his head. He had figured that Hume might be looking better, seeing he was on the verge of consciousness again, but the man still had that gray, deathlike pallor he had had when first brought in. He was muttering something but it was no more than a series of guttural grunts.

  Half an hour later, he opened his eyes and stared into the nurse’s face without recognition. His hands began to jerk, the fingers scratching at the sheets and he seemed more agitated. Garth looked at the doctor in alarm.

  “He’s surfacing,” the medic said in a quiet voice. “In a few minutes he’ll be conscious. I don’t know for how long, or if he’ll be lucid, but, all in all, it’s a good sign. Though he’s far from being out of danger yet.”

  Garth nodded, waiting, fighting down his impatience. Another twenty minutes passed and Hume was making no more sense than previously. Garth decided to try something and, ignoring the protests by the doctor and nurse, went to the bedside and leaned close over Hume’s sweating face.

  “Jim. Jim Hume,” he called quietly, reaching behind him to signal the doctor to keep back. “It’s me, Jim. Walt Garth. You’re among friends. Figured you might like to hear a familiar voice and see a face you know when you opened your eyes. Come on, Jim, old friend. Look up at me. I want to talk to you, amigo. Clay Nash sends his best. So does my daughter, Susan …”

  The medic moved forward but stopped as he saw Hume’s eyes fluttering. He signaled to the nurse to stay back as Hume opened his eyes and stared at Garth’s smiling face. The Wells Fargo director reached out and squeezed Hume’s shoulder gently.

  “That’s it, Jim. That’s it, man. You’re among friends. You have absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ve been shot and we’ve got the best doctors in St. Louis taking care of you. Just want you to know that. Why don’t you have a sleep now and I’ll see you next time round?”

  Hume continued to stare for a few seconds, then his eyelids slowly closed. Garth sighed and straightened, walking to the other side of the room with the medic while the nurse arranged the bedclothes around Hume’s bandaged chest.