Clay Nash 24

by Brett Waring

  He held it under the cold-eyed sheriff’s nose.

  “That gold, Marriner. Don’t tell me you studied that dodger so closely an’ didn’t see where it mentions Shannon stole $10,000 worth of gold from a Wells Fargo stage.”

  “Aw, that what you meant?” the lawman asked innocently, shaking his head. “Still the same answer. No gold on Shannon. Must’ve stashed it before he rode in.”

  Nash studied him closely. It was possible, of course. Old prospectors and cowboys with a good-sized bankroll sometimes stashed their wealth outside of a town before riding in, and picked it up again when they left.

  If they left.

  Sometimes they didn’t leave. They got into fights or were killed for one reason or another and their wealth simply lay where they had hidden it, perhaps to be stumbled upon by some lucky pilgrim at some future date.

  But Nash knew Shannon well enough to know the man wouldn’t let all that gold get far from his sight or reach. He would have brought it into town. That wire to Laurie Nettleton meant he had been planning on seeing her, so likely she had stored the gold for him in her whorehouse safe. He suggested this to Marriner who once again shook his head.

  “Nope. No gold in Laurie’s safe.”

  “You checked, huh?”

  The sheriff’s jaws clamped together. “I—huh—had to go through her things.”

  “Didn’t waste any time.”

  “You leave the way I do my job to me, Nash,” Marriner said dangerously. “Lonetree’s my town.”

  Nash nodded. “Good enough. I think I better talk with Shannon.”

  The sheriff looked ready to refuse, but nodded abruptly, took down a ring of keys and led the way to the cellblock at the rear of the building.

  Shannon was the sole occupant and he got up from his bunk and walked to the barred door as he recognized Nash. He looked haggard, haunted, but managed a twisted smile.

  “Hell, you must’ve been a lot closer behind me than I figured.”

  “Can’t trust no-one these days to do a good job, Shannon,” Nash told him. “Carney and Reardon fouled-up and the Butterfields aren’t really killers, just desperate enough to try to hold onto that little bit of gold you left ’em.”

  Shannon shrugged. “You’re right. You want a job done proper—do it yourself.”

  “Like you takin’ care of that Ranger Patrol.”

  Shannon’s expression didn’t change. “That’s the game, ain’t it? Outfox ’em an’ make good your getaway.”

  Nash shook his head slowly. “I damn well should’ve left you in the Wyoming State Pen. You’ve turned the West into a slaughterhouse since I got you out.”

  Shannon grinned. “I’m just a man who likes his freedom and is prepared to fight to keep it.”

  Nash tapped the barred door. “Seems you lost.”

  Shannon’s eyes slitted as he turned his gaze to the silent Marriner. “Only because of a lousy double-cross.”

  Nash snapped his head around. “What’s he mean?”

  Marriner shrugged. “The woman. Laurie Nettleton. She showed me the wire he sent. I was—more or less waitin’ for him to show.”

  Nash frowned. “Way I heard it, you waited quite a spell before you moved.”

  The sheriff shrugged easily. “You just been talkin’ about the complete Ranger Patrol he wiped-out. Singlehanded. I didn’t aim to take any more risks than necessary.”

  “Yet you went in alone, without deputies, or even a sawed-off shotgun to back you up.”

  Marriner’s jaw jutted belligerently. “He went berserk, like I told you. Wasn’t quite ready for him. I had to play it by ear.” They locked gazes and Shannon stared from one man to the other, then he spoke quietly:

  “I’d like to see you alone, Nash.”

  “Any objections?” the Wells Fargo man asked Marriner.

  The sheriff frowned, uncertainly. “He’s my prisoner.”

  “Temporarily. I’ll relieve you of him soon as I’m ready to move on,” Nash pointed out. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the bounty: I don’t share in it.”

  Marriner nodded. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

  He turned abruptly and walked out. Nash waited until the door had closed behind him, then looked expectantly at Shannon. “Well?”

  “He’s got the gold,” Shannon said.

  “What?”

  There was bitterness in Shannon’s voice as he continued. “Him an’ Laurie set me up. I—I guess I always was kinda—weak where that gal was concerned. For three years I carried a torch for her. Figured she felt the same about me. But folk can change a lot in that time. She got harder, worked her way up to ownin’ her own whorehouse, her own bunch of hard hombres—and I guess she paid-off the sheriff, too, so’s she could stay open or whatever. Makes no never mind. Thing is, I made a damn fool of myself. Thought she’d come away with me to Mexico. Even marry me.”

  Shannon’s mouth twisted and his knuckles were white where they gripped the bars.

  “Turned me down flat. She told me to leave the gold with her, when I first arrived. I din’ much like the idea of puttin’ it in her safe. She said there was a special cupboard in her rooms that she used for private papers and some spare cash she didn’t want to keep in the house safe. I was hot for her at the time and it seemed the easiest way ... Her job was to keep me busy—and she sure did that—while her men snatched the gold. I guess Marriner was settin’-up an ambush to nail me as I left her place or somethin’. I dunno for sure. Anyways, I left sooner than they figured, and busted in on Laurie’s men grabbin’ the gold ... Things went kinda—crazy after that. I—ain’t sure what happened. They told me this mornin’ I killed Laurie and some bouncer but seems the others got away. With the gold.”

  Nash was frowning. “What makes you think Marriner’s got it?”

  “You heard him say how Laurie helped set me up. It wasn’t just for him to capture me an’ get the bounty. They knew I had that gold. Feller who gave me Laurie’s address would’ve gotten in touch with her. I should’ve slit his throat, too, before I rode out, the blabby son of a bitch. But—I just never figured she’d ever turn on me.”

  “Well, what happened to the fellers who took the gold? No one’s mentioned them yet.”

  Shannon gave a twisted smile. “Ain’t likely to, either. They got out before the crowds came. My guess is they’re to meet up with Marriner later today. He didn’t have time last night after the fuss in the Pepper Tree. You ask me, he’d be worth keepin’ an eye on, Nash.”

  The Wells Fargo man stared levelly at Shannon.

  “You using me again to settle your scores, Shannon?”

  The killer looked innocent. “Who me? Hell, I’m just bein’ cooperative, Nash. I mean, I aimed to make my future with that gold. I went to a lot of trouble to get it—and a lot more trouble to hold onto it. I sure as hell don’t aim to let a snake like Myron T. Marriner get his dirty paws on it. I can’t go after him myself, but you got an interest in that gold, too, so I’m acquaintin’ you with all the facts as I know ’em. I guess it’s your duty to act on ’em, huh?”

  Nash shook his head and was forced to smile. “You sure got your gall, Shannon.”

  The killer’s lip curled.

  “You owe me somethin’. For Tomahawk—and Farrell in Cheyenne.”

  Nash scrubbed a hand around his jaw. He didn’t want to get into an argument over that, but he said, “Helping me out on that chore don’t even begin to weigh against the murder of those Rangers, Shannon. It’s why I came after you alone. I could’ve told the Rangers where you were headed. But I figured I turned you loose and so it was my job—and mine alone—to bring you back in. Dead or alive.”

  Shannon sighed. “You and me would’ve made one helluva team, Nash.”

  Nash laughed briefly: he couldn’t help himself. “Like I said: a ton of gall.”

  “Well, you gonna check out Marriner or not?”

  Before Nash could answer, the door at the end of the passage opened and the sheriff appeared.

&n
bsp; “Ten minutes are up,” he announced curtly.

  Nash nodded and walked down towards him.

  “When you movin’ me out, Nash?” Shannon called after him, but the Wells Fargo man didn’t reply and stepped past the lawman into the front office.

  Marriner locked the cellblock door behind him.

  “When are you thinkin’ of movin’ him?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow maybe. I’m about plumb tuckered after the ride out from the railhead. I’ll clean up, get some grub under my belt and snatch some shuteye. Likely I’ll move him out in the mornin’. All right with you?”

  Marriner shrugged. “Just so long as you gimme a receipt and sign a form statin’ I captured him alone an’ so the bounty’s to be paid direct to me. All five thousand bucks.”

  “Sounds fair. You recommend a decent hotel?”

  “Try the Plaza. Roomin’ house. Hot water for baths in a proper bath-house there. Grub’s good, an’ the rooms are clean an’ cheap.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Uh—What’d he have to say?” Marriner jerked a thumb towards the cellblock.

  “Told me he caught some men stealin’ his gold from the Nettleton woman’s room, and that’s what started the shooting. He said they ran out just before you got there ...?”

  Marriner frowned. “Well, could be, I guess,” he said slowly. “I mean, men were scatterin’ in all directions when the shootin’ started. There were them as didn’t want their wives or womenfolk to know they patronized the Pepper Tree—and others that just wanted to rubberneck. It was one helluva mix-up. Some fellers could’ve gotten away with Shannon’s gold in the confusion, I guess.” He looked curious. “Did Shannon have the gold with him, then?”

  “Said he stashed it in Laurie Nettleton’s apartment.”

  Marriner pursed his lips. “Well, could be, I guess. I never showed, of course, until the shootin’, so what he done before that I dunno.”

  Nash held his gaze a spell, then nodded curtly. “Well, I’ll have to get on the trail of them hombres. We want the gold back as much as we want Shannon.”

  “You call on me should you need help. Hear?”

  “Obliged,” Nash said and went out.

  Marriner moved to the front window and watched Nash lead his mounts down to the livery. Shortly afterwards, the man came out of the big double doors, shouldering his war bag and carrying his rifle as he made for the Plaza Rooming House.

  When Nash turned in the doorway, Myron T. Marriner locked up the office and strolled along the boardwalk, turning down the side street that led to Skip Hanna’s forge ...

  The bathhouse was at the rear of the Plaza, enclosed in sheets of flatiron that had been painted at one time. But now the paint had peeled and rust had eaten through in several places. Some of the supporting beams had rotted through from being continually waterlogged and part of the flooring had given way.

  But, inside, the big room was divided into private cubicles where each had a sawn-down rain butt, nails driven in to hold the threadbare towels supplied by the Plaza, and worn duckboards to stand in. There was a thin calico curtain over the entrance to each cubicle and a stool for the bather to stack his clothes on.

  A part-Indian roustabout brought the wooden pails of steaming water.

  Nash watched him fill the tub, slipped the man a quarter and, as he left, stripped and stepped into the water, gasping a little at its heat.

  He placed his Colt on the duckboard on the far side of the tub—and suddenly felt uneasy about spending much time in the town.

  He had soaped himself and was washing his hair when he heard the tin door creak open and close with its usual warped bang on the iron frame. Nash paused and squinted as he tried to see beyond the thin calico curtain. A shadow passed by and he recognized the Indian, carrying a pail of hot water in each hand.

  Nash relaxed as he heard the man pouring the water into the tub in the adjoining cubicle. Then he ducked his head under the water, washed the soap out of his hair and groped for his towel. While he did so, he heard the Indian come in again—followed by a heavy-treading customer.

  “Damn your lousy hide,” growled a deep voice. “How you expect me to get the coal dust outta my skin with that stuff? Hell, ain’t I been comin’ here long enough now for you to know a blacksmith needs sand soap so as to scrub hisself clean?” There was a thump on the iron and Nash figured the man had hurled the cake of lye soap provided against one of the walls. “Go git me some scrubbin’ soap, you useless son of a bitch.”

  There was a solid thunk and a grunt and Nash reckoned the Indian had been booted. He stumbled, dropping one of his empty pails, and it skidded under the calico curtain into Nash’s cubicle. The Indian came in after it, rolling his eyes.

  “He got shotgun,” he whispered as he knelt beside the tub to retrieve his pail. Then he retreated swiftly to run into more abuse by the blacksmith.

  Nash had caught a brief glimpse of a big man in a leather apron and with bulging biceps. He seemed to have something wrapped in rags down at his side. Nash figured it was the shotgun.

  “An’ hurry up, damn it!” the man bawled as the Indian staggered away.

  Nash didn’t hesitate. He snatched up his Colt and threw himself over the rim of the thick-sided rain butt, jamming himself down between it and the iron wall.

  Just as he did so, there was a thunderous roar and the calico curtain was ripped to shreds by the charge of buckshot.

  The force of the charge drove the butt against Nash, cramping his gun arm. Through the gunsmoke he saw the blacksmith cock back the hammer on the second barrel and the Greener bucked and roared again. The rain butt shattered but the thick, hickory staves took the shock of the pellets.

  Half drowned, Nash hurled himself onto the wet duckboards and slithered into the bathhouse—startling the hell out of the blacksmith who’d figured he should have been blown in two by the shotgun.

  The man reached for his Colt, but Nash, still sliding, had already triggered three fast shots.

  Skip Hanna’s big frame absorbed the shock of the lead, and he staggered back into the wall. But his Colt kept coming up, so Nash rolled, spun around, lunged to one knee and fired again.

  The bullet drove up under Hanna’s jaw and his head snapped back. His frame hit one of the iron sheets and nails screeched as they were torn out of the wood. The rotted beams gave way—and Hanna’s huge body tore out almost a complete wall as he flopped into the yard and lay still.

  The Indian crouched beside the cauldron of boiling water over the big fire in the yard, his eyes bulging.

  Nash stood up and grabbed his towel ...

  He was pulling on his trousers when the first tentative gawkers edged slowly into the yard through the street gate. Others stared from the rooming house windows.

  Nash dressed swiftly, pausing only to reload his Colt before pulling on his shirt and boots. He buckled on his gun rig, stepped over the dead blacksmith, and walked up to the Indian.

  “I heard him say he was the blacksmith. He a friend of Sheriff Marriner’s?”

  The Indian looked scared, glanced at the dead man, then nodded almost imperceptibly. Nash nodded, flicked the man a silver dollar and, grim-faced, went into the street.

  He strode purposefully towards the law office ...

  Myron T. Marriner stepped out from the shadows of the cellblock—and began walking slowly towards Nash.

  “That you doin’ the shootin’, Nash?” the sheriff called, his voice a mite unsteady.

  “You know damn well it was, Marriner. I nailed your man.”

  Nash stopped five yards from the lawman who had his hands at his sides, the insides of his wrists brushing the six-gun holsters. “My man? What the hell you talkin’ about?”

  “The blacksmith you sent to shotgun me.”

  Marriner scoffed. “Now why in hell would I do that?”

  “To keep me from makin’ trouble over the gold you an’ your pards stole from Shannon.”

  “Judas! You believe that loco killer?
He’s a mad dog. He’d say anythin’ to save his neck. He’s lying in his teeth.”

  “No. You are, Marriner.”

  Nash knew that was it. A man like Myron T. Marriner wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that sort of insult go. In any case, he still wanted Nash dead.

  Without hesitation, the sheriff’s hands lifted in a blur, his guns coming out of leather smoothly, snapping into line, hammers already cocked and releasing from under his thumbs.

  But before their pins had hit the cartridges, Nash’s Colt bucked in his hand in two swift shots and Marriner staggered backwards, his guns blasting wildly—one bullet smashing a store window, the second thudding into the side of a wooden horse trough across the street.

  Men started to scatter from where they had paused on the walks to watch. But there was no more shooting. They stared incredulously as they watched Sheriff Marriner fall to his knees, the weight of his guns dragging down his arms. He pitched forward onto his face and his boots drummed in the dust. Finally, his legs stretched out and he was still.

  Nash walked forward, and used a boot to heave him onto his back.

  Marriner was as dead as they come.

  The Wells Fargo man holstered his Colt and knelt to take the keys from the lawman’s belt.

  Then he stood and went to the law office, unlocking the door and going inside.

  Eight – Strange Sidekicks

  Shell Shannon was standing at the door of his cell gripping the bars as Nash entered the passage from the front office. The outlaw arched his eyebrows.

  “That you livenin’ up the town?” he asked.

  “Some,” Nash admitted, staring hard at the killer. “Marriner tried to set me up in the bathhouse. Sent a man with a shotgun to nail me.”

  Shannon whistled softly through his teeth.

  “Guess he figured you’d believed my story about the gold bein’ stolen, huh?”

  “Reckon so. Man he sent to get me was the local blacksmith. Big hombre. Cropped hair. Face all pocked from cinder burns. You see him among the fellers who took the gold out of that cupboard?”