by Brett Waring
“I got business to ’tend to,” Rigby growled. “Private business with the captain.”
Frenchy looked hurt. “Aw, hell, Chips, why you got to be so hard on me? I done like you asked, ain’t I? I got the knife and I got Nash to open the door so’s you could get the drop on him ... I done everythin’ you wanted. Can’t you ease up some on me now?”
“Yeah, give the kid a break, Chips,” the captain said and stiffened when Rigby whirled on him.
“Mind your own damn business,” he snarled.
The captain shrugged.
Rigby scowled, then turned to the girl, taking her arm and propelling her towards the door. “You vamoose. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Listen, Chips, I only want you to be nice to me ... I know I made a mistake with that ring, but I promised you it won’t happen again ...”
“Damn right it won’t. You’re goin’ ashore at Pershing Bend and stayin’ there. We’re through.”
She resisted as he tried to push her out on deck and stared at him incredulously. “After all the things I’ve done for you over the years. I’ve always waited for you when you come back from the schooners ... You said we’d get married.”
“I needed you then, I don’t now. Anyways, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He shoved her out and slammed the door in her face. He turned into the room and saw the captain frowning. “What’s wrong with you?” he snapped.
“Mistake treatin’ her like that, Chips. At this stage, leastways. Let’s get this whole deal finished, all the loot passed and so on before you get rid of her. You know what some of these dames are like if they get kicked out.”
“To hell with her. She’ll do like she’s told or I’ll bust her arm. If that don’t bring her to her senses, I’ll bust her neck. Forget her. Let’s figure just how we’ll fix this Nash deal. I’ll breathe easier once he’s dead ...”
Frenchy sobbed into her pillow. It was nearing daylight and her body had been racked with sobs for hours. She simply couldn’t believe that Chips Rigby was treating her so badly.
But she should have realized it. She was nothing much as a looker, thanks to all the beatings she had taken and the kind of life she had led. He could get better-looking girls than her just by snapping his fingers. She knew damn well that when he was away on the schooners, he played around with Mexican or South American girls. But she had never minded as long as he came back to her.
But it seemed he had no further use for her and she was to be discarded like a broken platter. The things she had done for that man! She had started work in the saloons because of him, so that he would have enough money to buy a decent set of tools which would allow him to get a job as a ship’s carpenter. Then he had needed money for other things and she had supplied it. He had said they would be married some day and she should put some money away towards a small ranch for them to live on. Of course he had ‘borrowed’ that money and she knew there never would be any ranch.
But she would have been happy, just married to him, even if he had continued to work the Gulf boats.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to see him, to talk it out. Frenchy got up, sluiced her face with water, straightened her creased dress and quietly slipped out of her cabin, wondering where her cabin mate was. Likely she was with one of the passengers for the night ...
Frenchy walked along the deck, seeing the first lightening of the sky in the east. The river showed like a thick stream of treacle. The wake of the riverboats washed the muddy banks. It was narrower than it had been. She heard the man at the wheel coughing and hawking as she rounded a bend to Rigby’s cabin.
The door was locked. She knocked gently and had to rap her knuckles several times before Rigby asked who it was.
“Frenchy. I ... I have to talk with you, honey. Please.”
“Go away. I’ll talk with you later.”
“No, Chips. “Now. I have to see you.” She rattled the door.
“You don’t get away from that door, I’ll come out and put your nose on the back of your head. Now get the hell away and let me sleep.”
Frenchy opened her mouth to speak but froze as she heard another sound in the cabin. A woman’s voice.
“Sleep? Hell, you ain’t done much of that this night, Chips. And by the look in your eye right now I’d say you don’t intend doin’ anymore.”
Frenchy closed her eyes and swayed. It was the voice of her cabin mate.
Nash hadn’t had any sleep, either, but for a very different reason. The rats hadn’t let him alone. He’d been kicking all night, smashing in the skulls of several rodents and then having a short respite while they were devoured by their fellows.
But there seemed to be an endless number that kept leaping on his legs and arms. The shackles restricted his movements and he had been bitten in a dozen places. He hoped he wouldn’t get blood poisoning. Then he laughed bitterly. The way things were going, that would be the least of his worries.
He heard another scraping sound and groaned. It seemed as if a fresh attack were imminent. Then he frowned. He could see a faint patch of gray where the room door should be. The throb of the engines was louder. There was someone moving towards his cell. It looked as though Rigby was aiming to finish him before it got fully daylight ...
“Nash?”
He stiffened at the sound of the whispered voice.
“Frenchy?” he asked incredulously.
She was standing at the bars. He heard metal on metal, then the door swung open. Her hands groped for the shackles and chain. A set of keys jangled. In a few seconds his hands and ankles were free and she thrust a holstered Colt and cartridge belt at him.
“How come?” he asked, swiftly buckling on the gunrig.
“It’s a long story,” she said. “I ... I knocked the captain unconscious in his bunk to get the keys and your gun. But I don’t know how long before he’ll come around.”
Nash nodded. “How’d you get past the engineers?”
“I ... I promised them a good time when they come off duty.”
“Well, I don’t know why you’re doin’ this, Frenchy, but I’m obliged.”
He started to move out and she caught his arm. In the faint light that filtered in past the churning paddlewheel, he saw her pale face turned towards him.
“Just ... kill Chips,” she said tightly. “Just ... kill the—son of a …” Her voice broke, and she choked back a sob, her grip tightening on his arm.
He said nothing, but led her towards the engine room door. As he closed it after him, he heard the rats thudding against it, reluctant to let their prospective meal escape.
The two men in the engine room stared at the gun in his hand and raised their hands shoulder high to indicate that they wanted no trouble. The girl was shaking as she followed Nash up the narrow companionway to the deck.
It was lighter up there and he caught a glimpse of movement along the deck by the wheelhouse just before a shot roared and splinters flew from the rail near his hand. He ducked back and pushed the girl down.
Again the gun hammered, and Nash dropped to a knee, then snapped a shot around the corner. He leapt upright and jumped for the stack of firewood near the engine room chute. He fought for balance and ran along the logs as the gun below thundered again and again. Lead ricocheted from the logs. He leapt at the rail of the deck above and hauled himself over it as a bullet tore through the loose folds of his shirt.
Sprawling, he turned and saw the captain, a thin stream of blood on one side of his face, clambering up the wood stack, gun in hand. Nash fired and the man lurched, fell, rolled, but triggered a shot upwards, clawing at the logs to keep from spilling to the deck. The logs came loose and the man yelled as he hit the deck with timber thudding on top of him. He came upright with a roar, heaving them aside, and lifting his gun in both hands for a killing shot.
Nash nailed him through the middle of the face and the captain ran backwards a few paces, hit the rail and spilled over the side. Nash didn’t even hear or see the splash he
made, but he saw the body tumbling over in the sternwheel’s wash.
Then he got to his feet and was instantly knocked flat as a bullet smashed into his right arm. His gun slipped from his fingers and he clawed at it with his left hand, grabbed it, rolled along the deck as another bullet thudded into the planks beside him, from above.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Nash rolled onto his back and brought up the Colt, firing twice. The man above the wheelhouse lifted to his toes, then collapsed on the deck.
Nash grabbed a kerchief from his pocket and stuffed it under his shirt sleeve, over the wound. He put his right arm inside his shirt, then lurched along the deck, ducking as four shots clanged against the steel frame of the cabin beside him.
He flattened himself against the wall, shooting downwards instinctively as he glimpsed Rigby on the lower deck holding a smoking six-gun. One of the gambling room bouncers appeared beside him and raised a Winchester. Nash triggered but his Colt was empty.
He lurched around the corner, flicking the loading gate open with a thumb, jamming the hot barrel between his right arm and his body as he shucked out fresh loads and pushed them home one-handed. He had just snapped the gate closed when the bouncer with the rifle came up the ladder ahead and launched himself into a headlong dive, the rifle thrust out in front of him, shooting. The bullet missed and Nash put two shots into the man, the lead taking him in the head.
Then a gun blasted behind him, an instant after he heard the light thud of feet on the deck. The bullet creased his face as he whirled to see Rigby. Nash fired instinctively but it was a hasty shot and he missed. Rigby threw himself aside as Nash ducked around the corner and ran for a ladder.
At the top, he paused and snapped two more shots at Rigby and the man threw himself against the cabin wall, thrust off and fired at Nash as the Wells Fargo man spilled down the ladder. Rigby lunged from the top and saw Nash below, just staggering to his feet, his face white with pain.
Rigby bared his teeth and held his gun in both hands, deliberately beading Nash for the killing shot.
The Wells Fargo man’s head was spinning dizzily. Lights flashed and whirled behind his eyes as he pushed upright.
Nash jumped to one side, his Colt blazing at the same instant as Rigby’s. The killer’s lead tore into the deck not two inches from Nash’s boot. Then Rigby staggered as Nash’s lead struck home. But the man bared his teeth and brought his gun up and around for another shot.
Nash emptied his gun into the big body, firing, thumbing back the hammer, and firing again ... until the gun clicked empty.
Rigby tumbled down the ladder and hit the deck with a dull thud.
Clay Nash looked around and saw the deck filling with passengers. None of the other bouncers seemed interested in buying into the fight.
Then Frenchy pushed through the crowd and, sobbing, knelt beside the dead Rigby, cradling his head in her lap and covering his face with kisses.
Nash shook his head slowly. There was no figuring women.
About the Author
Keith Hetherington
aka Kirk Hamilton, Brett Waring and Hank J. Kirby
Australian writer Keith has worked as television scriptwriter on such Australian TV shows as Homicide, Matlock Police, Division 4, Solo One, The Box, The Spoiler and Chopper Squad.
“I always liked writing little vignettes, trying to describe the action sequences I saw in a film or the Saturday Afternoon Serial at local cinemas,” remembers Keith Hetherington, better-known to Piccadilly Publishing readers as Hank J. Kirby, author of the Bronco Madigan series.
Keith went on to pen hundreds of westerns (the figure varies between 600 and 1000) under the names Kirk Hamilton (including the legendary Bannerman the Enforcer series) and Clay Nash as Brett Waring. Keith also worked as a journalist for the Queensland Health Education Council, writing weekly articles for newspapers on health subjects and radio plays dramatizing same.
More on Keith Hetherington
The Clay Nash Series by Brett Waring
Undercover Gun
A Gun Is Waiting
Long Trail to Yuma
Reckoning at Rimrock
Last Stage to Shiloh
Slaughter Trail
Sundown in Socorro
The Fargo Code
Ride for Texas
Bullet by Bullet
The Santa Fe Run
This Lawless Land
Guns on Big River
… And more to come every other month!
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