Clay Nash 13

by Brett Waring

  The man shrugged. “Be a lot easier if I knew Nash was dead. Trouble is, anythin’ happens to him now, folks’ll figure right off that it was Spar here, after what Nash done to him.”

  “Yeah,” Rigby said thoughtfully, scratching at his beard. “Be a mite different to you drawin’ on him and gunnin’ him down after he accused you of four-flushin’, Spar. This way it’ll be murder. The other, well, it’d have looked the way we wanted it to. You’d have had a right to draw on him.”

  Spar was eager to make amends and he stood up, facing Rigby. “Chips, I can fix it, I know I can. I can get him in a position where I can drop him into the paddlewheel and there won’t be enough left for anyone to know it was him. That way he’ll simply disappear. Like that hombre, Winters, after I knifed him.”

  Chips Rigby gave the matter some thought. The captain began to gather up the first aid items.

  “You really think you can do it, Spar?” the bearded man asked.

  “Gimme the chance, Chips. I won’t make no mistake this time.”

  “We’d all be a lot better off with Nash dead, Chips,” the captain urged.

  Rigby nodded abruptly. “All right. It’s plenty dark now out on deck. Let’s get down near the stern, Spar, and put out a couple of lamps. Then you can figure out a way to get Nash up there ... Say. We’ll use Frenchy. She can entice him up there where you’ll be waitin’. An’ while she keeps him interested, you move in.”

  “Leave it to me, Chips.”

  “Right. Well, let’s go put out them lanterns first.”

  Rigby and the captain exchanged glances as Spar grabbed his hat and headed for the door. The bearded man went after him and they stepped out onto the deck together and made their way to the stern. The big paddlewheel churned the river into muddy froth. The massive gear wheels clanked a little as the cogs meshed. The whole stern of the boat trembled underfoot as the glistening blades sliced into the water, dug deep, thrust the boat forward, then surfaced and rose on their endless journey.

  Rigby climbed on the rail, lifted the glass of the big diamond headed lantern and blew out the flame. On the opposite side Spar did the same; As they walked back to meet at the stern rail in the pitch darkness, Rigby glanced around.

  He heard Spar’s knuckles crack as the big man flexed his fingers. “Okay, Chips. Ready when you are. You get Frenchy to bring him up here and have his back to that pile of lifesavin’ gear an’ I’ll ... aaaaagh!”

  The words were lost in the sudden, choking scream that exploded out of Spar’s lungs as a knife blade drove home to the hilt. He clawed at the rail with one hand, the other groping blindly for Rigby. He snatched the hand back as it was slashed with the blade and he sobbed, realizing it had all been a trap, that he was the one who had been set up. Blood bubbling up into the back of his throat and staining the front of his shirt, Spar turned and tried to lurch away.

  Rigby was on him in a second and the knife rose and fell again and again in a frenzy of brutal stabbing. Spar collapsed, then lay in a bleeding heap at Rigby’s feet. The man made sure there was plenty of blood on the deck. He ripped a sleeve from Spar’s jacket, slashed it and dropped it into the pool of blood. Then he let the knife fall beside it.

  Breathing a little heavily, he glanced around, made sure there was no one about, then stooped and grabbed Spar beneath the arms. He manhandled him onto the rails and draped him over the teak.

  Then he grabbed the man’s legs and upended him. The beefy man’s body dropped straight into the blades of the giant paddlewheel.

  Chapter Nine – Vengeance

  Nash, in his role of Nick Clayton, bought a bottle of rye at the bar of the gaming room then walked around casually watching the gamblers.

  He shook off the attentions of the percentage girls, but gave one five dollars and asked, “Where’s Frenchy? She came to my cabin a while back, and I figured to meet her here, but she hasn’t turned up.”

  “Might’ve picked up a customer,” the girl told him. “I saw her walking towards the cabins with a bearded hombre on her arm. They seemed to be in a hurry.” She smiled, revealing bucked teeth. “Some of you fellers get a mite impatient at times.”

  Nash nodded. “That be the bearded hombre who came aboard at Beacon Point?”

  “Sure. Chips Rigby.”

  Nash nodded again, smiling faintly. Finally, he had positive identification.

  He played some cards for a spell, won one hand and lost three. He didn’t see Spar, and figured he was laid low after the fight. Then he returned to his cabin and climbed into his bunk.

  There was a hunch nagging at him. Something was wrong. He had the feeling that somewhere along the line he had made a mistake but, for the life of him, couldn’t figure where or what it might be. He tossed uneasily on the bunk. The paddle wheeler surged on through the night. Muted noise from the gaming room reached him. The monotonous thudding of the engines gradually became a beat that faded into the distance and he started to drift into sleep.

  He awoke to a knock on the door. Nash frowned, not sure that he had heard it or whether he had dreamt it. Then the sound came again and he snagged his six-gun out from under his pillow, thumb hooked in the hammer spur.

  “Yeah?”

  “Nick? It’s me, Frenchy,” a girl’s voice answered through the door.

  “Aw, kind of late tonight, Frenchy. I’m tuckered. I’ll see you around in the mornin’.”

  “Nick, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it earlier. I got tied up.”

  “With that Rigby feller.”

  There was a brief silence, then Frenchy said, “I dunno what his last name is. Told me just to call him Chips ... But, listen. Nick. I got to see you. There’s been some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Her voice was lower as she rattled the door knob impatiently. “There’s been blood found on the deck above the paddlewheel—and the sleeve of Spar’s coat. It looks like he might’ve been dropped overboard. They’re searching the boat for him now.”

  Nash frowned as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and pulled on a pair of trousers. He took the Colt with him, hammer back at full cock, and turned the key in the lock. Then he stepped back and called to her to come in.

  She slipped inside swiftly and let the door swing, running to him and startling him by throwing her arms about his neck and clinging tightly.

  “Hey! What the hell!” He tried to disengage her hands but couldn’t and had to lower the gun hammer gently in case the weapon discharged.

  “Oh, Nick, they think you murdered Spar,” she cried.

  Suddenly, there was movement on the deck and he tried to shove her aside as he brought up the gun again but she clung to his wrist.

  Instantly, the captain and Chips Rigby were in the cabin, cocked guns in their hands. Some other men crowded around the door on the deck.

  Frenchy released her hold on his wrist and stepped aside swiftly, crossing the cabin to stand beside Rigby.

  “Better drop that, Clayton,” the captain ordered, nodding to the Colt in Nash’s hand.

  The Wells Fargo agent hesitated, then let the gun thud to the floor. He lifted his hands slowly, and looked at Rigby. Yes ... he could distinguish the horse-like features under the beard.

  He knew he was looking at the man who had tried to kill Jim Hume.

  “What’s this all about?” Nash asked.

  “I reckon you know, cowboy,” Rigby said grimly, turning his head to call over his shoulder, “Eh, boys?”

  There were angry murmurings from the men and, in the wash of light from a deck lantern and the one that Frenchy lit in the cabin, he saw that they were passengers. Tough customers, all, men who had been gambling and whoring almost non-stop since he had boarded the Jewel. Several of them had guns in their hands.

  “I don’t know what’s goin’ on,” Nash said flatly, his hard gaze drilling into the captain’s face.

  “Well, then, I guess we’d better tell you, you murderin’ skunk.”

  Nash kept hi
s face expressionless as he waited.

  “You killed Spar,” Rigby added. There were murmurings from the crowd. “He was an old shipmate of mine. He had his faults, like mebbe dealin’ from the bottom of a card deck, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “Like what?” Nash gritted. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Then I’ll spell it out for you,” Rigby said. “I was takin’ the air up on the top deck, near the stern. I slipped in somethin’. It was dark and the lanterns were out—both of ’em, which likely means they were put out. Deliberately. But I struck a vesta and I seen it was a pool of blood I’d slipped in. There was the sleeve of Spar’s jacket. Anyone’d recognize it. It’d been slashed in a couple of places by a knife blade. There was blood on the rail, like there would be left if a bleedin’ body was balanced before bein’ tipped over. Into the paddlewheel. We found more blood and ... stuff ... on the lower deck by the wheel, too. Engineer recalls it falterin’ briefly couple or three hours back. Likely when Spar’s body jammed it before bein’...”

  “Chips,” Frenchy cried, revolted.

  “Okay. But you get the idea, huh, Clayton?”

  “I get a lot of vague evidence so far. You searched the boat for Spar? He might’ve been the one to do the killin’, and lost his coat sleeve in a fight. He could be hid away, wounded.”

  The captain shook his head. “We’ve searched every inch of the Jewel. He ain’t aboard.”

  “Then why figure I killed him? I beat him fair and square in that fight. I had no grudges against him.”

  “Mebbe,” admitted the captain. “But Spar might’ve figured to square with you, waited till he could jump you on the deck, but lost out again.”

  “In which case it wouldn’t be murder. It’d be self-defense,” Nash said.

  Rigby shook his head. “Not when you dumped his body into that stern wheel. He might’ve been alive.”

  Nash shrugged. “It’s all guesswork. I was in the gambling room and then came back here to bed, after lookin’ for Frenchy for a spell. A red-haired gal ought to be able to confirm that. I gave her five dollars.”

  Rigby shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet on that, Clayton.” Nash’s eyes slitted and he nodded gently. No, he thought, they would have that aspect covered.

  “Besides,” Rigby continued, “I found Spar’s ivory-handled push-dagger lyin’ in that pool of blood, too. An’ most everyone in the gamin’ room saw you take that away from Spar.”

  Nash snapped his gaze to Frenchy. “The knife was taken from my cabin earlier,” he said, knowing as he spoke how lame it sounded.

  The captain and Rigby snorted. But Nash kept his eyes on the girl. She colored a little and dropped her gaze. She wouldn’t look at him.

  “I’m throwin’ you in the brig, mister,” the captain said. “I’ve got a right strong cell down near the engine room that’ll hold you.”

  There wasn’t anything Nash could do. He knew he could shout his innocence but it wouldn’t make any difference. Obviously, the captain and Rigby had worked on the crowd. They were all convinced he had killed Spar, in self-defense or otherwise didn’t matter. Rigby had managed to horrify them with what had happened to Spar’s body once it had been dropped into the paddlewheel’s blades.

  Nash was already labeled as a mad dog killer in the minds of the passengers.

  He was taken below into the smelly engine room, past the greasy engineers and to a dark section in the stern. The cell was a small cubicle, barely four feet square. He wouldn’t be able to stand up straight and wouldn’t be able to lie full length. There was no bunk. Shackles for wrists and ankles were chained to the wall, held there by strong metal staples. There was a single barred door and no other ventilation.

  The whole place shook and trembled with the throbbing engines; the churning paddlewheel blades were only feet away. Water slopped into the cell and flooded the floor.

  Nash was shoved in at gunpoint and the shackles were snapped on. The door clanged closed. The captain herded the passengers out, but Rigby hung back. When the others had gone he walked to the door of the cell and looked in.

  “Just give a call for cabin service, Nash,” he grinned.

  “Why’d you kill your own man, Rigby?”

  The killer shrugged. “He was makin’ too many mistakes. He got so wrapped up in gamblin’ he sold that brooch. Then he killed your pard to get it back when he realized what he’d done. Which wasn’t the smartest thing to do by a long ways. We had you nicely set-up in that gamblin’ room and he fouled that, too. He was no more use to us.”

  “So you had Frenchy take the push-dagger from my cabin and killed him up on deck, framin’ me.”

  Rigby grinned. “Worked, too, didn’t it?”

  “Now what happens?”

  “We-ell, I guess we got another two days before we call at another landin’. Sometime durin’ those two days, you’ll make a try to escape.”

  Nash nodded slowly. “And I’ll be shot before I make it.”

  “Maybe not. Don’t want it to look too blatant. You Wells Fargo agents are mighty suspicious and smart at pickin’ up things like that. But I reckon you’d be desperate enough to try to get away by climbin’ out on the stern wheel braces and droppin’ into the river. Only thing is, you’ll slip before you manage it and it’ll look like poetic justice to most folk, you dyin’ the same way Spar did ...”

  Nash held out the shackling chains. “I’m goin’ to have to be Hercules to break out of these.”

  Rigby smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Aw, the cap’n’s a humane man; he’ll let you loose for some exercise. Under guard, of course. But the day you make your escape try, you’ll slug the guard.”

  “Got it all figured out, huh?”

  “Sure. I don’t make mistakes. Every angle’s covered. If folk follow my directions, nothin’ goes wrong.”

  “You made a mistake not killin’ Jim Hume.”

  Rigby’s face straightened.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I hear he’s goin’ to make it. But there’ll be other times. Tell me, Nash, how’d you get onto me?”

  “Like you said, Wells Fargo is pretty thorough. It wasn’t hard to narrow it down. Besides, you left sign everywhere.”

  “You’re lyin’,” Rigby blazed. “What kind of sign?”

  “That you were mighty handy with tools. You made a good job of those fake guns. By the way, that idea wasn’t even original. Black Bart used it two years ago.”

  Rigby ripped out a curse and lunged at the bars, reaching in to grab Nash by the shirt. He heaved the agent forward and Nash grunted as his face slammed into the metal. Then Rigby flung him back.

  “Don’t prod me, you son of a bitch,” he breathed.

  Nash shook his head to clear it. Blood trickled from his nostrils but he smiled crookedly. “Kind of touchy, eh? Well anyway, we got onto you, that’s the main thing. What I can’t figure though, is why a man who holds up a stage by himself has to bring so many other folk into it afterwards. If you’d stayed a loner, likely you wouldn’t’ve been pinpointed. That brooch turning up was a dead giveaway. Funny thing was, we weren’t even lookin’ for you on the riverboats. We were tryin’ to trace another bunch who were melting down stolen gold coins and trying to pass them off as nuggets.”

  Rigby stared at him for a spell then cursed. “Just plain damn bad luck, then. If that fool Spar hadn’t ...” He paused and shook his head.

  Nash waited but Rigby didn’t continue, so he said, “You set that gunman onto me in Feather Creek, then killed the undertaker, right?”

  Rigby laughed. “Yeah. That was funny. I almost stopped you before you got started. I was just coverin’ my tracks as a matter of course. Sent some money to that gunny and said if ever anyone came lookin’ for me, to take care of him. And the undertaker, too, ’cause he could likely put ’em onto me.” He laughed again. “Must’ve only been a couple of days before you got there.”

  “You got a weird sense of humor,” Nash said as
the man continued to chuckle.

  “Inherited it from my pappy.” Then Rigby sobered abruptly. “I was a long time at sea, Nash, but I knew sooner or later I’d square things for the old man with Hume. Findin’ him on that stage was a heaven-sent opportunity.”

  “But you blew it. Even if you had’ve killed Hume, you’d never have gotten away with it, Rigby. We look after our own at Wells Fargo.”

  The killer merely scowled, then abruptly turned and walked away, pausing briefly at the door into the main engine room.

  “You’ll have company soon. Forgot to tell you this part of the boat is infested with rats. Big, plump, river rats, the size of beavers.

  He went out laughing and Nash was left in pitch darkness. He tensed as he heard a scuffling sound just outside the cell door. Something furry and greasy brushed against his leg.

  Sharp little teeth began to gnaw at the toe of his boot. He lashed out violently and heard a squeal and the thud of a small body. A few seconds later the animal was back again, gnawing at the leather ...

  The captain poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Chips Rigby. They saluted each other and drank.

  “When you figure’ll be the best time?” the captain asked.

  “Sooner the better.”

  “Well, it’ll have to be at night. Not much left of darkness now, so it looks like bein’ tomorrow night. We’ll arrive at Pershing’s Bend around midnight tomorrow.”

  Rigby frowned. “Hell, the boat’s still got plenty of folk about at that time.”

  The captain held up a placating hand. I’ll give the orders to slow down. We’ll arrive later but we’ll have to finish Nash before then ...”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll fix it. You fix things so no one’s likely to be on deck. Have the gals put on a dancin’ show or somethin’. That’ll hold ’em all in the gamin’ room. Mebbe the engineers’ll sneak out for a look ...”

  He snapped his head around at a light knock on the door. It opened and Frenchy, looking anxious, stepped inside.

  “Where you been, Chips?” she asked. “I been waitin’ in your cabin for you to come back.”