Clay Nash 24

by Brett Waring

  The bushwhacker opened up again and three bullets thudded into the log—two chewing splinters from the edge just above his head as he levered a shell into the breech, and searched for a gun flash in the night.

  But there wasn’t any. And it had become very still. The night birds and animals were quiet. The gunfire’s echoes had died away and the fire no longer crackled and hissed ...

  Nash drew in a long, slow breath and held it, his senses straining. When the blood began to pound in his ears, he slowly released about half of the breath, held the remainder a little longer—and kept listening.

  A twig cracked.

  Dried leaves crunched.

  Nash slowly eased the rifle barrel towards the faint sounds. His eyes strained to see into the blackness of the trees.

  Gradually—and it was more an impression than an actual sighting—he became sure that something was moving. A kind of ripple in the deep darkness.

  Suddenly, he fired a shot.

  Hard on the heels of the smashing gunshot came a yell and a thrashing among the brush that grew under the trees. Nash leapt up and over the deadfall, levering in another shell as he ran forward, shooting again.

  A gun flash stabbed the night, angled upwards at him, and he felt the tug of lead at the loose cloth of his shirt sleeve.

  Nash spun away, stumbling a little as he levered again and brought the rifle around, triggering with one hand and throwing out the other for balance.

  The rifle bucked, riding up with recoil, then he heard the distinct sound of lead thudding into flesh, swiftly followed by a grunt of pain and a threshing of limbs.

  Clay Nash jacked a new shell into the action and warily stepped forward, the rifle trigger depressed, and the hammer spur held back to full cock beneath his thumb. Even if he were hit, the rifle would fire the instant his thumb relaxed its pressure.

  He stopped when he found the man groaning at his feet. Then he quickly knelt, found the man’s rifle and hurled it behind him.

  The wounded man was still, but breathing raggedly.

  “I—I’m alone,” he gasped.

  “Shut up,” Nash told him quietly, his senses still alert.

  After a spell, he was satisfied the man was telling the truth. He reached down, felt for the shirt collar and dragged the protesting ambusher towards his camp site.

  Using his boot to push the remains of the fire together, he knelt to blow some of the embers into flames. Then he tossed a handful of manzanita and stepped back as it flared, rifle ready, moving away into the shadows.

  He saw a rawboned man in patched coveralls, with one bib-brace held in place with a rusted safety pin. His face was like a forlorn burro’s, Nash thought. There was blood seeping from two areas in his chest.

  “I don’t know you, feller,” Nash said.

  The man said nothing as he tried to get a good look at his wounds. Then he glanced up, his mouth pulled to one side with pain.

  “I’m bleedin’ bad.”

  “So you are,” Nash agreed without moving. “Likely you’ll bleed a whole lot worse before we’re through. Might even bleed to death.”

  “Gimme me a break, Nash.”

  The Wells Fargo man’s rifle barrel poked out of the shadows and the muzzle rammed beneath the man’s jaw, pressure forcing his head back so that he had to look into Nash’s hard eyes.

  “How you know my name?”

  “Guessed,” he said after a spell.

  Nash increased the pressure. “Guess again. Or I’ll lay your face open with this here foresight.”

  The man flinched.

  “I—I had your description.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  Again the man was silent for a spell and only after Nash laid the blade foresight against his cheek did he answer hurriedly.

  “Hombre named Shelton.”

  “Uh-huh. Then I’m on his trail, which is good to know. But who the hell’re you?”

  “Amos Butterfield. Got me a hard-rock spread in the foothills yonder.”

  “And ...?”

  “Listen, can’t you help stop the bleedin’? It’s pumpin’ outta me like someone opened the head gates on a dam an’ I’m feelin’ kinda dizzy.”

  Nash merely stared into the man’s gaunt, yellowing face. Butterfield sighed, his long, thin body shuddering a little. He knew he would get no attention for his wound until he answered Nash’s questions.

  “Okay. This stranger came to my place outta the badlands—little bit south of here. Effie—the wife—an’ me nursed him back an’ he told us his name was Shelton. He stuck around a day or two. He was mighty weak from that crossin’. By that time I’d found the gold in his mule’s pack an’ while he’d told us he was a sourdough prospector, I knew the gold he had din’ come outta the ground that way. It was pure. Anyways, I din’ say nothin’; a man’s business is his own out here. But, when he was ready to leave he—well, he gave me some of the gold an’ said there was a feller on his trail who wanted to take it away from him. Described you, said you was named Nash, an’ you’d kill him if you caught up with him. That was all he said. Nothin’ more. He just thanked us and lit out.”

  “Leavin’ you with a chunk of his gold, huh?”

  Butterfield sighed. “Yeah. You dunno what it meant to Effie an’ me. We been stuck out here for years. Couldn’t never see our way clear of gettin’ away. Then he rode out an’ left that gold sittin’ on the table. Must’ve been nigh on a pound, I reckon, in various pieces.” He lifted pain-filled eyes to Nash. “It was our way out, Nash. We—we couldn’t turn it down.”

  “But you knew what you had to do to keep it?”

  “Sure. Shelton never said nothin’, but it was plain enough. He knew how desperate we was to get shot of this place. We might be isolated, but Effie an’ me ain’t fools. We still got our brains. It was plain he’d stole the gold an’ you was gonna take it back from him: which likely makes you some kinda lawman. That meant, too, you’d take back what he’d left us. So—there was only one way for us to keep it.”

  “Nail me,” Nash said quietly.

  Butterfield nodded jerkily. “I—I ain’t a killer. But—well, I seen what this place done to us. It took my boys, turned Effie into a walkin’ skeleton from a fine-lookin’ woman—fine lookin’. It beat us to our knees, Nash. I—I’m desperate enough to do—anythin’.”

  Nash was silent a spell, then took the rifle muzzle away from the man’s jaw and knelt beside him, preparing to doctor his wounds.

  “Shelton used you, you see that?” Nash said as he worked with rags and water.

  Butterfield sucked down a sharp breath as he nodded. “Yeah—I guess so—But—I din’ mind—long as we got—to keep the—gold.”

  “His real name’s Shannon, Shell Shannon. He’s a killer, escaped convict. He—helped me on a job for Wells Fargo, who I work for, but then he kind of cut loose. Killed three, four fellers in a posse, which in a way you can savvy, for they were tryin’ to nail him. But then he held up one of our stages. Used a special long-range rifle he has ...”

  “Yeah, he showed it to us. I ain’t never seen anythin’ like it. He claims he can hit a man at a mile with it but I din’ believe that.”

  “It’s true enough. He picked off the guards on the stage from over six hundred yards. Shot the team, blew the arm off the driver ... I—made some mistakes with Shannon, figured I could turn a blind eye to some of his shortcomings, but I’ve been wrong. He’s a murdering son of a bitch and he’s set me up twice for ambush now. I have to nail him and get that gold back ... He still totin’ the chest with him?”

  Butterfield looked blank, then shook his head. “Never saw no chest. He had the gold done up in burlap sacks tied off with rawhide thongs.”

  Nash nodded. “He must’ve dumped the chest in the badlands. It was a lot of extra weight ... Well, Butterfield, you’re lucky I was shootin’ into the pitch dark. If I’d gotten a clearer shot at you, you’d be dead by now. As it is, I figure you might even pull through.”

 
; Butterfield looked concerned. “You—you ain’t gonna leave me—here?”

  “Nope. I’ll tote you back to your spread if it’s nearby. Providin’ you tell me where Shannon went.”

  “I dunno—I can show you which way he rode out, is all.”

  “Good enough. You got a hoss out there someplace?”

  “In a draw behind a row of elms.”

  Twenty minutes later, Nash rode out of the camp, leading his pack horse and Butterfield’s crowbait with the wounded man roped into the saddle. He followed the man’s directions and the moon came up before they had cleared the timber of the foothills and reached the desolate flats.

  Far out in the grayness, he saw the shapeless blob of shadow that was the Butterfield place. There was a pinpoint of light showing.

  “Effie,” the wounded man explained, his speech becoming more and more slurred as shock set in and pushed him closer to oblivion. “She’ll burn our last candle—for—for me ...”

  Nash homed-in on the light and there was a faint gray paleness in the east by the time he dismounted in the yard. As he made to untie Butterfield, the door of the house opened and Effie appeared holding a single-barreled shotgun.

  “What you done to my man?” she demanded.

  “He’s wounded, ma’am, and near unconscious now,” Nash replied steadily. “But, with some care, he’ll pull through all right.”

  “You bring him inside an’ you walk slow, mister. If Amos dies, I—I’ll blow your head off.”

  Nash smiled thinly at the nervous threat and grunted as he got Butterfield into his arms, surprised at the lightness of the man. He must be half-starved, he figured. The barrel of the shotgun followed his every movement as he carried Butterfield into the house and, at Effie’s instructions, laid him out on the horsehair sofa.

  There was only the light of the single candle in the room and Nash had no trouble at all in suddenly wheeling out of the shadows and snatching the shotgun from the startled woman’s bony hands.

  She gave a small gasp and stepped back, pulling her worn dress tighter about her bosom.

  “Hell, it ain’t even loaded,” Nash said, breaking open the shotgun’s action.

  “We ain’t been able to afford shells for that gun for two years,” Effie told him wearily, kneeling beside her husband, smoothing his sweat-beaded brow and murmuring to him.

  He was semi-conscious. “Effie—this—this is—Nash. Shel—Shelton’s a—a—killer ...”

  “He din’ kill us,” the woman said, glancing somewhat defiantly at Nash.

  “No, ma’am, ’cause he wanted to use you. Left that gold, far more than he needed to, made you obligated to him. He knew your husband’d go after me to keep that gold. He tried to make your husband into a killer, too.”

  She frowned and turned back to Butterfield. He nodded weakly.

  “I’m—lucky Nash—din’—din’—k-kill me, Effie.”

  His head sagged to one side and she felt his heartbeat. Suddenly, she stood up, a small, thin woman, still with some fight left in her where her man was concerned.

  “Well, seems you tried to help Amos, Nash. You gonna take him in for tryin’ to bushwhack you?”

  Nash shook his head. “No harm done. But he’s mighty lucky he’s alive.”

  She sighed, looking down at her husband as he breathed heavily but steadily.

  “Yes. I suppose so.” She shifted her gaze to Nash’s face. “Shelton said you were the killer.”

  Nash smiled thinly. “I’m a Wells Fargo detective, ma’am. That gold was stolen from one of our stages. Shannon killed three men in cold blood to get it. Blew another man’s arm off. Shot to death four outlaws who tried to take it from him.” His voice hardened as he added, “And sent your husband out to either kill me or get himself killed. In any event, I’d be slowed down and it would give Shannon more of a chance.”

  Effie frowned. “This—Shannon—He seemed—nice enough. To us, leastways.”

  “’Cause he wanted something from you, ma’am. That gold he left didn’t amount to a hill of beans really. He’s still got over a hundred-twenty pounds of it left. He’d never miss a few lumps ... No-one would.”

  Her jaw sagged as she tried to imagine such wealth.

  “I’d sure be obliged if you could give me any help you can to get onto his trail, ma’am. There’s a bounty. I don’t share in Company-posted bounties, so it’d be all yours.”

  Effie’s head tilted. “I have no use for blood money, Nash. We might be dirt-poor but I don’t want money with the taint of blood on it.”

  “You were gonna keep that gold—yet you knew Amos would have to kill me if you wanted to keep it.”

  She flushed. “We—we’re kind of desperate. I—I guess I can’t afford the luxury of the old principles any more. But I’d’ve told you what you wanted to know without you dangling the prospect of a bounty before me.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  “Shelton—Shannon, if that’s his real name—was delirious when we found him. The heat had got to him, he was starving—an’ real thirsty. He muttered a lot of gibberish. Only after his tongue came unstuck from the roof of his mouth could I understand some of what he said. He spoke of a girl—perhaps a sister, I’m not sure—Laurie, was her name. She’s somewhere on the Brazos, in one of the river towns, from what I could pick up. I don’t know where.”

  Nash whistled softly. “Big river. Flows clear down to the Gulf of Mexico. Must be a hundred towns along its banks, maybe more.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s all I could catch.” Abruptly, she frowned. “No, wait, there was something else ... He kept talking about a tree. A ‘pine’ tree or a ‘lone’ tree. I remember his words were slurred and I couldn’t really make it out ... I don’t know if it’s any help ...”

  “Not right now,” Nash admitted. “But maybe it means something. I’m obliged, ma’am.” He stood up and looked down at Butterfield. “He’ll be all right, ma’am. Too bad we had to meet over smokin’ guns. Can you manage or would you like me to send out a sawbones from somewhere?”

  Her jaw thrust out. “I can take care of my own man.”

  “Sure, ma’am. Just askin’. If Shannon was headed for the Brazos, I guess he rode out to the south?”

  She nodded. “Middlewater lies that way. It’s our nearest town, and he was after more supplies. We had nothing to give him.”

  Nash nodded and touched a hand to his hat brim. “Obliged for your help, ma’am. I’ll water my hoss, if you don’t mind, and then be on my way.”

  “Help yourself,” she told him in a dead-sounding voice, turning away and going into another room.

  Nash frowned and went back outside, gave his horse water from the well, but refrained from drinking the muddy liquid himself.

  Then he turned to his packhorse and threw back the cover, opening the bags of stores and rummaging among them. He took out a haunch of cheesecloth-wrapped bacon, some cans of beans, a bag of coffee, some flour and sugar and a couple of cans of beef.

  As he turned to carry the food inside, he stopped dead, seeing Effie Butterworth coming towards him, holding out a square of faded calico on which rested several shapeless lumps of yellow metal.

  “You’ll be wanting this,” she told him, thrusting the gold towards him.

  Nash set down the food and took the cloth, examining the lumps of gold briefly. He wrapped the cloth around them, stooped, and awkwardly juggled the sacks of grub with the cans, loading them into the woman’s arms.

  She looked at him with a frown.

  “I’ll pick up more in Middlewater,” he said.

  He swung aboard his mount and lifted the reins of the pack horse, touching a hand to his hat brim.

  “Hope you and your husband have better luck from now on, Mrs. Butterfield,” he said. “Adios.”

  “Goodbye, Nash. And—thank you.”

  “Por nada,” he told her with a faint smile and started to ride away from the mean spread, the woman standing in the early morning light, her arm
s weighed down with supplies, watching him go.

  It was only when she went back inside and set down the goods on the table that she was startled to find the calico-wrapped lumps of gold pushed into the top of the bag of flour.

  She lifted out the gold and spun towards the door, her mouth instinctively opening to call to Nash. Then she paused and smiled slowly—the first smile that had warmed her weathered features in years.

  What was it Nash had said? No more than a hill of beans. There was still over one hundred-twenty pounds left ... The few lumps Shannon had left behind would never be missed. By anyone.

  But they would sure give the Butterfields the chance they had looked for for years, the chance to move on—to a better life.

  She wrenched open the door and saw Nash’s dwindling figure as he rode towards the crest of a sand hill.

  “Thaaaaank yoooouuuuuu,” she called, her thin voice echoing through the hazy morning air.

  Nash gave no sign that he’d heard as he dropped from sight over the far side of the dune.

  Effie Butterfield was actually humming as she turned back into the house and hurried through to the parlor where her wounded husband lay ...

  Five – Bullet Trail

  Middlewater, Texas, was nothing to write home about as far as Western towns went. It was the mirror-image of a hundred other cow towns. There was a main street fronted by saloons and business houses, dance-halls, girl parlors and the like, a couple of sides streets that held lesser businesses, and then the rows of houses. Likely there were five hundred permanent residents or thereabouts. But the number would be increased from time to time as cowboys rode in from outlying ranches or trail herds passed through.

  But the town did have a telegraph office and that was the first place Nash made for.

  He sent a wire off to Hume in Fort Worth, and asked him to check Shannon’s file for a sister or girlfriend named ‘Laurie’ and also any association with a ‘pine’ or ‘lone’ tree.

  Nash paid the man and asked, “How far to the nearest railroad?”

  The man snorted. “Amarillo, feller. Three, four days’ ride. An’ anyone loco enough to set out in this heat just to catch one of them stinking, smoke-belchin’ locomotives must be really out of his mind.”