Clay Nash 13

by Brett Waring

  “What—else?” she stammered.

  “Nothing else, Frenchy. That’s all.” He suddenly released her hand and she massaged the whitened and numbed fingers, staring at him disbelievingly.

  “There has to be somethin’ else,” she said, her voice trembling.

  Magee shook his head. “Nope. Here. I’ll even give you back your ring.”

  She took it, her hands shaking badly, her eyes probing his smirking face.

  “Please, Mr. Magee. Don’t ... don’t have anyone hurt me. I’ll do whatever you say; go wherever you send me. I won’t make no trouble, honest. Just don’t ... don’t send anyone after me to ... hurt me. Please.”

  “Quit whining,” he breathed. “You’ll be all right. Spar’ll be here tomorrow to take you aboard. Now get out before I change my mind.”

  Still incredulous and feeling sick, Frenchy backed to the door, groped behind her for the handle and turned it. Just as she started out into the passage, Magee looked up from the account book he had started to study.

  “Oh ... One thing I forgot ...”

  Frenchy froze.

  His smile widened.

  “Chips will be on board.”

  Her legs almost gave way beneath her. No wonder Magee wasn’t punishing her more than he already had.

  She would much rather face him than Chips when he was riled. And she knew damn well Magee would see he had a full report about her foolishness in wearing the ring.

  Shaking like a leaf, she clawed her way along the wall of the short passage to the second door. The guard had heard her coming and he opened it for her. Another man, called Deadlight, stood beside him.

  It was one of the bouncers, a one-eyed man with a black patch covering his empty socket. He grinned at her with broken teeth, and reached for her arm with fingers of steel.

  “Howdy, Frenchy. I got me a mighty good chore to do. Boss wants me to stay with you. In your room. All night.”

  She might have collapsed if Deadlight hadn’t tightened his grip on her arm. She knew what a sadist he could be. It seemed her punishment was already starting. She wondered if she would be conscious when she was taken aboard the riverboat, Jewel.

  Chapter Six – Paddle Wheeler

  “It sure sounds like Chet Winters,” Walter Garth said, grimfaced, as he spoke with Clay Nash in his rooms at the Atlanta. “Description seems to fit.”

  Nash sighed and nodded. “Where’d they find him?”

  “Just above Ryan’s Landing. Couple of kids went out early-morning fishing in a punt. Saw the body floating and towed it ashore and had enough sense to fetch their father. He called the sheriff in from Tacoma.”

  “What made him think the body had anything to do with Wells Fargo?”

  “He didn’t. He sent a wire on ahead to the city marshal here, figuring he’d better question folk aboard the Jewel when she put in. The marshal’s had instructions to keep us informed of anything unusual happening along the river so he brought me the wire.”

  Nash cursed softly. “Well, it’s too bad Chet had to die, but sounds like he was on the right trail; Guess the brooch wasn’t on him?”

  “Pockets were empty. There was a mark around his neck where he’d been wearing something on a thong; likely, it had been jerked loose. I’d say it was the brooch and the killer found it.”

  “What d’you want me to do, Walt?” Nash asked grimly.

  “Well, the boat’s goin’ to be held up while the marshal makes some enquiries and I’ve got off a wire to the sheriff in Tacoma. He’ll look for a few more identifying marks on the body and try to confirm it’s Chet Winters ...”

  “I could ride on down there and make sure.”

  Garth shook his head. “No point, Clay. I want you on that riverboat when she pulls out. Whoever killed Chet won’t do anything to give themselves away. That brooch is either at the bottom of the river by now or well hidden. In any case, let’s not spook him, whoever it is. I don’t want him slipping away. I want the son of a bitch nailed.”

  Nash raised his eyebrows. It was very rare for Garth to use bad language. It was an indication of how strongly he felt about things. Garth lit a cigar, then continued, “You get aboard the Jewel, Clay, and see what’s going on. I want you to pose as a trail driver who’s just made a killing by moving a big herd to Newton where they’re beef hungry. You’ve had a mighty hard trail and now you’re ready to unwind and kick over the traces for a spell.”

  “Where am I headed?”

  “No place in particular. You like riverboats. You’re goin’ to ride ’em up and down, having yourself a high time. And I do mean a high time, Clay. Throw your money around. Gamble. Get yourself a gal. Tip big. The stewards know everything that goes on aboard those boats. One of them might’ve seen that brooch somewhere. Use the name Clayton, and any first name you want to choose. I’ll see that someone’s planted aboard to mention you in connection with trail driving. Stick with it till you get a positive lead, Clay.”

  Nash nodded, then said, “Have you come up with anything on the kin of the men on that list yet?”

  “Not so far. A couple of possibilities that are being checked out further. I’ll get word to you as soon as there’s something more positive.”

  They discussed a few minor details then Nash left. He drew over a thousand dollars, signed for it, then went to an outfitters and bought a frockcoat, vest, striped trousers, new half boots and a pair of nickel-plated spurs. He slung his gun from his hip, then went to the infirmary where he asked to see Jim Hume.

  The medic didn’t want to let him in but Nash promised he wouldn’t stay long. The doctor reluctantly agreed but insisted that a nurse stay in the room ...

  Nash was shocked by Hume’s appearance. The man had lost twenty pounds in weight. His face was gaunt, with flesh sagging around the jowls. They had shaved off his moustache for some reason and the man’s features looked naked. His heavy-lidded eyes flickered open as Nash spoke and his pale lips moved slightly. He lifted a hand a few inches from the sheet.

  “Take it easy, Jim,” Nash said, sitting by the bed and glancing at the nurse who busied herself with some medical charts at her small desk. There had been a nurse with Hume night and day. He still wasn’t off the dangerously ill list, though his condition was no longer regarded as critical. “I’m movin’ out soon. Onto the riverboat, Jewel, which seems to be the right area to work right now. Chet Winters traced one of the brooches there—and wound up floating in the river off Ryan’s Landing.”

  He put out a hand swiftly and covered Hume’s as the man made to stir. The nurse frowned disapprovingly and Nash figured he had better choose his words more carefully.

  “I’ll find out who did it, Jim, same as I’ll nail the son of a ... the varmint who shot you. We’re workin’ on that ‘kin’ angle now. How come you figured it was kin and not someone you’d tangled with?”

  He was aware that the nurse was listening. Hume was a very sick man but he knew that if he showed signs of excitement or tension, Nash would be asked to leave. He hated lying there helpless, while others searched for his assailant.

  “Young hombre,” Hume rasped. His voice was low and Nash had to lean close to catch the words. “Too young to be someone I’d—tangled—with ...”

  Nash nodded. “Figured as much.”

  “He said I could think of everyone I’d ever convicted and I still wouldn’t come up with the right one. So it had to be kin. Or a mighty good friend.”

  “We’re hopin’ it’s kinfolks. Hell, if it’s a pard, we’re in trouble.”

  Hume flicked his eyes towards the frowning nurse and lifted a hand a few inches.

  “Been thinkin’, lyin’ here …” he continued hoarsely. “Had a lot of threats made against me. But mostly they come to nothing. But there were a couple of cases that might have a bearin’ on this. Hombre named Rigby. ‘Cap’ they called him. He held up a stage on the Julesburg run. Killed the driver and guard and a passenger, raped a woman ... We hung him. Right up till the trap dropped, he c
laimed he was innocent. But he was guilty all right ... He had kin out on the west coast, and a boy who’d run away to sea ...”

  Nash stiffened, but didn’t interrupt.

  “... Rigby always said he’d have died easy if he could’ve seen that kid once more before the noose pulled tight. Know nothin’ about the kid, but it’s just possible he could be the one.”

  Nash wrote swiftly in his notebook as the nurse approached.

  “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Nash.”

  “Hold up, Nurse,” Hume said, catching a breath. “Got one more thing to tell him. Mighty important.”

  The nurse frowned, then nodded.

  “All right. But just one.”

  Hume smiled faintly and put a hand on Clay’s arm.

  “Other man was named Wallis,” he wheezed. “I killed him in a gunfight. His wife and kids were in the crowds on the street. She tried to claw my eyes out and swore she’d bring up her two boys hatin’ my name and turn ’em loose on me as soon as they was old enough to pack a gun. The eldest’d be about the right age, same as that masked hombre.”

  Nash made another note and glanced up. “I’ll give this to Walt Garth—it’ll save a helluva lot of checkin’.” He stood and gripped Hume’s limp hand. “I’ll be goin’, Jim. Hope you’re a mite spryer next time I see you.”

  “Adios, Clay. And luck,” Hume rasped.

  Nash threw him a casual salute and went out.

  He had a hunch that Hume had just pinpointed his attacker. All he had to do was find him.

  The St. Louis city marshal soon pinned down Spar as the most likely suspect in the murder of Chet Winters. There were too many people who had seen the brooch for Spar to try to deny the story.

  “But hell, I sold the brooch to him. For forty-five bucks,” he complained to the lawman. “Plenty folk seen that. I didn’t have no more use for it. I needed the money and I needed it right then. I won the game, so I figured it was a good luck sign gettin’ rid of that brooch.”

  “You lost many games after that, though,” the marshal told him. “You could’ve gone sour on Winters—and killed him to get even.”

  Spar sighed. “I didn’t lose all that much, and I can prove it.” He started to bring out some money but froze when the captain of the riverboat approached.

  “Goddamn it, Marshal, how much longer are you goin’ to be holdin’ me up?” he shouted. “Hell, I was makin’ a record passage till you started buttin’ in. What’s all the damn delay? If you figure this feller slipped a knife into that bucko, then for Chrissakes take him ashore and jail him or somethin’. Just don’t keep me tied up to this damn pier any longer.”

  The marshal frowned. “I’m sorry, Captain, but you must realize I have my job to do. And, yes, this man is my prime suspect.” Spar moved back a pace as the marshal took out his Colt. “But I will take your advice, Captain, and move him ashore.” He turned to Spar and glared at him. “Pick up your gear, mister. We’ve talked enough.”

  “That’s more like it,” the captain growled. “You get him ashore. I’ll send a deckhand over with his things.”

  “My thanks, Captain.”

  “Forget it. Just let me sail out of here.”

  The marshal prodded Spar along the deck and down the gangplank under the curious stares of other passengers and folk on the landing. He took him to the jailhouse, then went to see Walter Garth.

  The Wells Fargo director was furious when the marshal told him what he had done.

  “Damn it, Marshal, I didn’t want that,” Garth snapped, bringing his fist down on the desk. “I didn’t want anyone arrested.” He glared towards the open door. “Danby,” he shouted. “Go fetch Mr. Nash. Pronto.”

  Danby appeared at the doorway, glanced at the two men, nodded, then hurried away.

  The marshal blinked in surprise.

  “Mr. Garth, I realize your company is powerful and has a lot of sway politically, but ...”

  “Garth looked at him coldly. “You’re right. I can get the mayor of this city to order you to release that man, Marshal. And I will if I have to. But you can save both of us a lot of time and trouble by doing it voluntarily. If you do it right away, he will be back on board that paddle wheeler when it sails, and I will have a top operative on board—working undercover to watch him. Will you agree?”

  The marshal was still undecided when Nash came hurrying in, dressed for his role as Nick Clayton, trail driver. He looked quizzically from the marshal to his director.

  “Clay, get your bags on board the Jewel right away. She sails in thirty minutes,” Garth snapped. His lips curled as he indicated the lawman. “Our esteemed marshal showed a mite too much zeal and arrested a man named Spar on suspicion of murdering Winters.”

  “Of all the stupid ...” Nash began as the lawman stood irritably.

  “All right, all right,” he snapped. “I’ll release him. But I want it in writing that you take full responsibility, Mr. Garth. Otherwise, he stays in that cell.”

  Garth was already reaching for paper and pen.

  “Better get aboard, Clay.”

  Nash nodded and hurried out. The marshal stood by the desk as Garth wrote rapidly ...

  Twenty minutes later, Clay Nash arrived at the landing in a buggy with a leather-bound trunk on the seat beside him. He jumped down and grabbed a burly dock worker as he passed.

  “Carry my trunk aboard for me, pardner, and you’ll earn yourself a dollar.”

  The dock man, used to tips of ten cents or, at the most, a quarter, swiftly forgot whatever errand he was on and shouldered Nash’s trunk up the gangplank where Nash confronted a man wearing a woolen jacket and mariner’s cap.

  “Like a single cabin, pard,” he said briskly. “One with a double bed.” He winked at the riverboat man.

  “Hard to come by, mister,” the man said. “Doubles, triples, no trouble at all. But singles with double beds ...” He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. “Can’t be done.”

  Nash nodded and held up a five dollar piece. He covered the gold coin as the man reached for it. “Maybe that makes it a little easier?”

  The man grinned. “Gimme five minutes,” he said as he hurried away.

  Nash signed to the dock man to set down the trunk and then sat on it while he waited for the seaman to return.

  He didn’t notice the blonde woman standing in the sun at the stern by the pile of cargo, frowning in his direction. Her mouth was battered and swollen and there were bruises on her neck and one bare shoulder where a sleeve of her frock had slipped.

  Frenchy’s teeth tugged lightly at her split lips as she moved back behind some crates, still watching Nash, frowning, as if she were trying to figure out whether she knew him or not.

  When the Jewel’s whistle blasted and she cast off from the landing and nosed out into the big river current, Clay Nash watched the folk on the bank from the window of a lower deck cabin. He knew word would already be spreading about the trail driver named Nick Clayton who tipped five-dollar gold pieces.

  And just before the gangplank had been drawn in he had seen Spar hurrying aboard, lugging his gear.

  It promised to be an interesting voyage ...

  Chapter Seven – Frenchy

  Spar put his luggage in his cabin again, still a mite bewildered by the happenings of the last couple of hours.

  He was sweating. He had only just made the Jewel as they were dragging in the gangplank, but some of the sweat was from the brief time he had spent in the jail. That damn marshal had seemed all set to nail him for Winters’ killing and then had suddenly released him saying that he didn’t have enough evidence ...

  Spar was too relieved to be a free man again to think much about why the marshal had abruptly changed his mind.

  He spun around as the cabin door opened behind him and the riverboat captain came inside. He was a big man, who had once controlled with an iron will some of the roughest crews ever to put to sea.

  His face and hands were scarred: souvenirs of a knife-fi
ght on a Gulf Coast schooner during a mutiny. It was said that he had shot seven men and killed three more with his bare hands on that occasion.

  But on the big river, he restrained himself. There was little need to haze a paddle wheeler’s crew, anyway, and, after a while he had discovered that he could make a mighty good life for himself; one that gave him comfort, women, booze and extra money—simply by turning a blind eye to various happenings on board his boat and ashore.

  There was often a sealed envelope filled with money pushed under his cabin door. He rarely, if ever, wondered about the source ...

  “How come that damn marshal turned you loose?” he snapped, glaring at Spar as the man stood with a hand half under his coat.

  Spar dropped his hand and started to unpack. “Lack of evidence.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hogwash.”

  Spar looked up, frowning,

  “Hogwash, I say,” the captain repeated. “He had plenty to hold you on.”

  “Couldn’t have,” Spar said. “Why else would he turn me loose?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” the captain said thoughtfully. “You sure no one come to see him when you were in the cells?”

  “How do I know? He locked me up, then he went out. When he came back, he released me. He didn’t tell me why, and I sure as hell didn’t ask.”

  The captain shook his head. “Damned if I like it.”

  “What the hell!”

  “I just don’t like the sudden about-face. Not when that goddamn brooch is involved.”

  “But it ain’t. I dropped it over the side like you told me.”

  “Just as well, too, the way that marshal went through the boat. You were loco bringin’ it out at all. You could’ve brought Wells Fargo down on us all like an avalanche. And I still ain’t certain you didn’t. That feller Winters could’ve been an agent for ’em. I always figured it was a mite queer the way he jumped in and bought that brooch.”

  Spar, none too bright at the best of times, scrubbed a hand around his jaw. “Well, I dunno. Cap’n ... He seemed genuine enough to me ...”