by Brett Waring
“By hell I did,” Shannon said swiftly. “He was one of ’em all right. He had the tarp where I’d wrapped the gold. He lost his guns and swung the tarp into me. Nearly knocked me through the wall. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d’ve nailed ’em all. Including that sidewinder, Marriner.” He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Nash. “Speakin’ of which ...?”
“He’s dead,” Nash told him curtly. “Braced me in the street. After I called him a liar.”
A slow smile spread across Shannon’s face. “Dog-gone, Nash, you an’ me’ve just gotta team-up. We could take the West apart, you an’ me. We could be the richest men in the world in six months.”
“In six months, you’ll be food for the worms, Shannon.”
The killer only grinned wider. “I ain’t dead yet. But you think about it, Nash, two men like you an’ me, why we could ...”
“Forget it,” snapped Nash. “I’m interested in descriptions of the other fellers who were in that room with the blacksmith.” The outlaw stared hard—then sighed regretfully.
“Yeah, well, I guess it was a foolish notion, knowin’ the kind of codes you live by. But you’re loco, you know that? Workin’ for peanuts for Wells Fargo when you could sell that gun of yours to the highest bidder—and, man, they’d bid real high for a shootist like you.”
“The other men you saw with the blacksmith,” Nash cut in harshly. “Come on, Shannon. You ain’t gettin’ out of that cell till I take you out. So quit the con. You know you don’t want those hombres to have the gold.”
Shannon laughed. “You’re trying to con me, Nash.”
Nash’s mouth pulled into a hard line. “Come on.”
The outlaw shrugged. “Guess you’re right. Those sonuvers put one over on me and if I can’t get my hands on ’em, next best thing is to set you after ’em I guess.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Let’s see ... The bouncer I nailed. I think one of the others was another bouncer. I seen him in the parlor kind of keepin’ an eye on things when I first arrived at the Pepper Tree. Beefy hombre, busted nose. Kind of spread all over his face. Jaw went back so it weren’t hardly there. Hair looked black, plastered across his skull, no partin’.”
“You’re doin’ fine. What about the others?”
“Only one more, but I got an idea there was two others outside the door in the passage, standin’ guard, sort of. That’s just an impression, ’cause things was happenin’ kinda fast as you can appreciate.”
“Sure. Now this other hombre ...?”
Shannon pursed his lips. “Tough, mean-eyes. I—think he wore his gun on the left hip, butt-forward for a cross-draw. Yeah, he did, certain-sure of that now. He’d be about thirty, I guess, under six feet, towheaded. Oh, yeah. He had a short scar runnin’ from a corner of his mouth to his jaw line. Don’t recollect which side of his face, though.”
Nash smiled faintly. “You’d make a good lawman with observation like that.”
The outlaw scowled. “I wouldn’t make any kinda lawman.”
“No. Guess not. Okay. Muchas gracias. I’ll see if I can get a line on these hombres.”
“Hell, they’ll have cleared town soon as you nailed Marriner an’ the blacksmith.”
“Mebbe. Mebbe not. A hundred pounds of gold takes some movin’. As you likely know.”
Shannon said nothing. He watched as Nash walked back towards the door at the end of the passage.
“With those two fellers who were out in the passage, that makes four, Nash,” he called. “Killers all. An’ they’ll want to hang onto that gold. You could mebbe use a hand ...?”
Nash blinked in surprise down the length of the passage and then laughed as he turned again and went out the door, murmuring.
“Gall.”
Shannon merely shrugged as he heard the key turn in the heavy lock.
He considered his position was better than it had been. Not much, but a little.
And he had a feeling that his luck was about to get even better.
The Pepper Tree was still operating in full swing despite the fact that its owner had been killed.
In fact, Laurie Nettleton had only been one of the whorehouse’s owners. She’d been the head partner, having sunk the most money into the business, but she also had had some ‘silent’ partners who had earned a slice of the profits because of their investments. Three well-respected townsmen had been the ‘silent trio’ and they had arranged for a woman called Cimarron Belle, Laurie’s deputy, to take over the reins of the Pepper Tree and keep it operating at a profit.
They couldn’t afford to close the place down—not with trail herds on their way up and due to hit town at any time.
So the shattered mirrors had been removed from the Glass Room, as it had been called, the bullet holes patched, the bloodstains either washed out or covered with floor rugs.
A sign had gone up on the gingerbread porch saying, ‘Business as Usual’.
There had been an hour’s closure as a mark of respect during the funeral of Laurie Nettleton but only the Pepper Tree girls and some representatives from the town’s other whorehouses had attended the service.
Laurie had been hardly laid to rest before the dust of a trail herd was spotted out across the Brazos.
Cimarron Belle had hurriedly herded her girls back to the parlor to prepare themselves for the expected influx of business.
The place was a hive of activity when Clay Nash stepped in through the ornate door and looked around him.
Belle moved towards him, throwing her feathered boa across her pudgy shoulders—hiding the large freckles and cigarette burn scars, and plastering a mechanical smile on her heavily-made-up face.
“‘You’re kinda early, cowboy, but I dare say we can find someone who’ll be willin’ to accommodate you. What’s your fancy, handsome?”
Nash looked past her at the girls of all colors and shapes who were beginning to line up across the big reception lounge. He nodded to one of the two men who were busy moving a velvet-covered couch to a new position near the front window.
“I kinda like the looks of that hombre with the busted nose and no jaw.”
Cimarron Belle looked startled.
“Well, you coulda fooled me, tough-lookin’ hombre like you, but I guess it takes all kinds. But you’re outta luck with Shark. He’s one of my—protectors.”
Nash smiled faintly. “I still like his looks.”
Belle laughed. “I wouldn’t make him any kind of a proposition, cowboy.”
Nash continued to smile and stepped past the blousy woman.
“Hey, hold it,” she cried sharply.
The rise in her tone reached Shark and his companion as they set down the couch. They glanced at Nash and Shark’s eyes narrowed. Then he looked past the approaching Wells Fargo man to Belle.
“He’s interested in you, Shark,” she called.
“He’s the Wells Fargo hombre gunned down Marriner,” Shark said and he reached under his clawhammer coat.
Nash lunged forward as the girls scattered, some squealing, and the second bouncer launched himself in a run. Nash dodged, tripped the man, grabbed the end of the couch and shoved it violently into Shark’s midriff.
The man grunted and doubled up, dropping the short-barreled Sheriff’s Special Colt he’d pulled from a holster under his arm. The second bouncer scrambled up and dived for Nash’s legs.
“Don’t wreck anythin’,” Belle screamed, hastily picking up some lamps and running with them to a shelf above the fireplace. “Don’t bust nothin’.”
Nash went down under the second bouncer’s dive and he swung at the man’s head with his gun barrel. It hit the hard skull at an angle, just as the man threw himself forward.
The weight crushed Nash’s hand, bending his wrist so that he was forced to drop his Colt.
The bouncer was dazed but used to taking punishment as well as handing it out. He drove an elbow against Nash’s throat, crushing his windpipe with his forearm as he let his weight fall on it.
Nash jabbed a thumb into the man’s
eye and the bouncer rolled off, screaming. Then he snatched up his Colt and smashed it across the bouncer’s temple—throwing his whole weight behind the blow.
The man sagged, unconscious, and Nash rolled away as Shark’s gun roared and a bullet ripped into the carpet beside his head.
“No shootin’,” screamed Belle frantically. “Please.”
Nash’s gun blazed as Shark leapt across the room and leapt through the big street front window. The glass and timber shattered and the man sprawled onto the boardwalk.
Nash jumped up and Belle threw herself at him, her long fingernails raking at his face.
He ducked and tried to push her away. But she was bulky and angry and kept coming at him—trying to blind him. He rammed his gun muzzle hard into her flabby midriff and she gave a rasping gasp as she stopped dead in her tracks.
Nash clipped her on the jaw with a fist as he thrust her back over the arm of the couch and ran for the broken window.
He skidded and flattened himself against the wall as Shark’s gun blazed—the lead chewing splinters from the edge of the window frame.
Nash dived through, shooting wildly, hoping the gunfire would throw off Shark’s aim.
But the bouncer hadn’t waited. He’d disappeared down a side street and, as Nash picked himself up and started to sprint after him, he saw the blood on the boardwalk among the shards of broken glass.
Folk on the streets scattered when they saw the gun in his hand and Nash grabbed at an awning post to steady himself as he skidded into the side street. He half expected Shark’s gun to blast at him but there was no sign of the man.
However, he was leaving a trail he couldn’t do anything about. Splashes of blood dotted the ground and Nash, Colt cocked, ran the way they pointed.
They led into the deserted smithy and, to the rear of the shop, the narrow door in the wall ...
The man had merely gone back into the Pepper Tree by the secret entrance.
Nash kicked it open and Shark was waiting in the narrow passage beyond, crouching, one hand holding a gaping wound in his side, the other bringing up the short-barreled Sheriff’s Special. The man’s feet rested in a pool of blood and Nash figured Shark had severed some kind of artery to be bleeding as badly as that.
He took it all in in a split second as he dived for the floor, Colt blazing as the Sheriff’s Special bucked and roared.
He spun as lead took him in the left arm, throwing off his aim. But he forced himself to bring up his Colt again and shoot point-blank into the bouncer.
The big body jerked under the strike of lead and crashed back against the door that led into the Pepper Tree. The man’s legs slid out from under him and he sat down with a thump, glazing eyes staring down at the pool of blood ...
Nash pressed back against the wall, wincing, his left arm oozing blood. He glanced at Shark and saw the man wasn’t going to give him any more trouble. Then he holstered his Colt, took off his neckerchief and wrapped it around his wound. The bullet seemed to have passed clear through but he was bleeding profusely.
Shark was dying.
The man turned his head slowly and his face was a ghastly, waxen color.
“Who were your pards, Shark?” Nash asked. “The ones who helped move that gold from the room in the whorehouse?”
The man stared dully, and the Wells Fargo man shook him gently.
“You ain’t got but a few minutes at the outside, Shark,” he told the man. “Won’t do you no good to take their names with you. Who’s the hombre wears his gun for a cross draw?”
Momentarily, some surprise flared in the pain-filled eyes and then Shark’s mouth moved and through the guttural sounds that came out, Nash picked out a single name:
“Brown?” he asked but at the slow shake of Shark’s head, he asked again, “Crown, then? Huh? That’s it, right? Crown.”
Shark nodded gently.
“The two who stood guard in the passage?” Nash prompted.
“Cr-Cr-Crown,” the man gasped.
“You already told me that,” Nash snapped impatiently. “Come on. The others. And where are they ...? Shark ... Shark ...?”
He stood up, feeling a mite dizzy. The man was dead.
Nash turned and walked back into the forge, stumbling a little, then made his way back to the Pepper Tree.
Cimarron Belle was angrily ordering around her girls, trying to get the parlor cleaned up before the trail herd hit town.
She stared, mouth sagging, as Nash appeared with his arm dangling and dripping blood onto the carpet. Belle started to speak but Nash walked to the mantelpiece, swept off one of the ornate china lamps. It shattered on the carpet—spilling its reservoir of coal oil.
Before Belle could protest, Nash had a vesta in his right hand, his thumbnail against the head—ready to snap it into flame.
Cimarron Belle raised a hand and shook her head slowly as the girls squealed and began to clear the room.
“No. Please.”
“Some names,” Nash gritted, biting back the pain that engulfed him. “I got one: Crown. He wears his gun in a cross draw. Two more. The ones Marriner set to guard the passage outside Laurie Nettleton’s rooms.”
Belle was sick-white as she stared, seemingly hypnotized by his hand holding the vesta above the wet patch of coal oil.
“Th-that’s Ace Crown,” she said in a strangled voice. “His brother, Jed, was one of the guards. Other feller was called Coop. Short for Cooper, I guess.”
“Where are they?” Nash asked harshly, fighting the dizziness.
“Not here.”
“Where?”
Belle swallowed and her whole flabby body began to tremble. “Th-they lit out after you shot the sher’f. S-said they’d meet Sh-Shark at—at—G-Gun Rock this—evenin’ ... Aw, Judas, Nash, don’t strike that vesta, please, man.”
Nash swayed. “Where’s this Gun Rock?”
“Downstream. Maybe—twenty miles. I dunno. Never seen it. ‘S’posed to’ve been where some Yankees lost a load of artillery when chasin’ some Johnny Rebs durin’ the War ... Honest, Nash, it’s just a name. Only—owlhoots really know where it is. Ask anyone.”
Nash stared at her, then lowered his shaking hand and flicked the unlit vesta into the fireplace. Belle almost fainted in relief as he turned and stumbled out of the room.
He found his way to a doctor and had the wound cauterized—a crude, butchering method of searing the edges of the skin with a red hot iron ...
He passed out for a short spell and felt mighty weak when he came to on the doctor’s couch. He found his arm tightly bandaged and strapped across his chest.
“Bleedin’s stopped,” the old doctor told him curtly. “Be ten dollars.”
Nash struggled to a sitting position, dug in his pockets until he came up with the money. The doctor took it from him with a grunt.
“You’d best rest for a couple days, young feller.”
“Can’t afford to, Doc.”
“Up to you. Take my advice you’ll rest, though. Might find yourself topplin’ out of the saddle at any time otherwise, or passin’ out in the middle of a gunfight—which you seem to be right partial to.” There was disapproval in the doctor’s voice.
“That’s my job, Doc.” Nash squinted at the oldster. “You lived here all your life?”
The man frowned. “Thirty-odd years of it. Why?”
“I guess that’s long enough for you to remember the incident of the Yankees losin’ artillery at a place called Gun Rock, downstream on the Brazos?”
The man seemed surprised. “Why, sure, I recollect that. Some Johnny Rebs on the run mined a bridge. Blew it to pieces with a Yankee troop on it, cannon an’ all. We didn’t hear about it till after the War, though.”
“Know where Gun Rock is, Doc?”
The medic frowned. “No. Never seen the place. Only a couple of the Rebs survived an’ the Yankees wouldn’t ever admit it happened. It’s just a name. But I hear there is such a place. Used by owlhoots. It’s generally said to be i
n an inaccessible part of the river, where it runs through the gorges, I guess.”
“Thanks, anyway, Doc.” Nash put out a hand to steady himself against the wall, let the wave of dizziness pass, then made his way unsteadily towards the door.
“You better rest up, young feller. I won’t take the responsibility if you don’t.”
“Adios, Doc,” Nash said and went out.
He felt mighty weak and his arm hurt like hell. He was surprised to see that it was evening already and he went to a cafe, ordered black coffee and a sandwich. He couldn’t stomach anything else.
He had the man make up some cold cuts and bought cornpone. It was wrapped in a cloth and he went back to the law offices and into the cellblock, taking a lantern with him.
Shell Shannon was at the door of his cell.
“Judas Priest! I figured they must’ve nailed you, Nash.” He whistled softly when he saw the wounded arm in its sling. “They winged you bad, huh?”
He looked into Nash’s gaunt face, seeing the pain reflected there. The Wells Fargo man handed him the cold cuts and cornpone and Shannon began to wolf the food while he listened to Nash’s description of what had happened.
“They must’ve panicked some when Marriner went down,” he concluded. “Figured they’d better get the gold out of town right away, and cleared out for this Gun Rock.”
Shannon snapped up his head. “Gun Rock?”
“Down river, somewhere among the gorges. Lost place, used by owlhoots.”
Shannon nodded. “Yeah, I know it.”
Nash looked at him sharply. “You what?”
The outlaw smiled crookedly around a mouthful of cornpone. “I’ve used it myself. Did a—chore for a politician once. They had to get me away pronto. Someplace I could lay low for a spell, but not too far from Austin, where they had another chore lined-up for me. So they took me to Gun Rock.”
“Hell, that’s a break,” Nash said. “No-one in town seems to know just exactly where it is and my arm ain’t the best that I could spend three, four days in the saddle tryin’ to find the place ... I’ll get some paper and you can draw me a map.”
He started to turn away—but swung back at the sharp tone Shannon used to call him.
