Clay Nash 24

by Brett Waring

  “Nash.”

  Shannon shook his head.

  “No map,” he said flatly.

  Clay Nash frowned, and Shannon gave him a crooked smile. “I’ll take you to Gun Rock.”

  Nash stared blankly for a moment, then laughed.

  “You must think I’m loco.”

  Shannon shrugged. “Suit yourself. No way you can make me draw you a map ... Oh, sure, you could beat me, an’ I’d draw up somethin’ for you but you wouldn’t know where it’d lead you, till you tried to follow it. I could set you down smack in the middle of quicksands ...” He shook his head again. “Nope. Only way you’re gonna get to Gun Rock is take me along as sidekick.”

  “No way.”

  “If you say so. But I figured you wanted to recover that gold mighty bad ... Or, mebbe you figure you’re tough enough after all to spend a week or so tryin’ to find Gun Rock? By which time, of course, the Crown brothers an’ Coop will’ve been long gone ... But you know your business best.”

  Nash stared bleakly at him, his eyes like gun barrels.

  “You schemin’ son of a bitch,” he breathed.

  Shannon merely laughed.

  “How the hell I know you’re even telling the truth?” Nash demanded.

  Shannon lifted his arms out from his body in a shrugging motion then continued to stare at the hard faced Nash, grinning widely.

  “We sidekicks again, amigo?” he asked, barely containing his laughter.

  Nash glared. Then he swung away and, weaving a little, made his way back down the passage.

  “Someone else has to know where Gun Rock is.”

  “Guess so,” Shannon admitted, watching the man nearing the door. “But have you got time to find ’em?”

  Nash gave him a final hard cold look and went out, locking the door after him.

  Shannon finished eating, went back to his bunk and stretched out, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the shadows on the ceiling and whistling softly through his teeth ...

  He sat up slowly when, an hour later, Clay Nash reappeared, his face set into rocky lines.

  “You win,” he said quietly. “We pull out at sun-up.”

  Shell Shannon smiled.

  Nine – Brazos Guns

  Nash felt terrible when he awoke the next morning on Marriner’s bunk in a room off the front office. He felt as if he had been dragged by a horse. His body throbbed and ached from head to toe. His arm seemed as if it had been crushed in a rooming house mangle. He figured there was some slight fever, too.

  But he staggered out to the wash bench, pumped chill well water into the tin basin and began scooping it over his face and neck ...

  Fully dressed, he crossed to the cafe, drank two cups of strong black coffee while the man made some breakfast for him to take back to the cells. He ate a couple of eggs and some bacon and beans before giving Shannon his meal.

  “Ready when you are, Nash,” the outlaw said eagerly.

  Nash smiled thinly and Shannon frowned as the Wells Fargo man awkwardly slid his throbbing, wounded arm out of the sling. “Shove your hands through the food slot.”

  The outlaw frowned, hesitated, then pushed his hands out through the wide gap in the bars through which the food tray was passed. Nash snapped a pair of manacles on the man’s wrists and Shannon’s face hardened—his eyes deadly as they searched the other’s face.

  “Okay,” he said heavily. “I guess you can’t take chances with me.”

  “Damn right I can’t,” Nash told him. “Nor do I aim to, Shannon. Now step back.”

  He unlocked the door but didn’t swing it open, merely left the keys in the lock. His right hand palmed up his Colt smoothly, the hammer ratcheting back, the muzzle covering the outlaw.

  “Come on out and walk ahead of me to the front office.”

  Shannon did as he was told and stopped by Marriner’s desk, nodding to the Remington-Hepworth standing in a corner.

  “We takin’ that?” he asked.

  “Why should we? I’ve got all the guns I need.”

  “There’s a place that overlooks Gun Rock. You could cut down the odds from a distance with that piece of artillery.”

  Nash studied him carefully. “Shannon, I know you’re figurin’ on making some kind of break. Don’t take me for a fool. I’ll be watchin’ you like a hawk. You won’t get a chance to bust loose, savvy?”

  “Sure, I savvy, Nash. Just as you savvy no matter how many times I give my word not to try to run, I will soon as I get a chance. But that’s what I like about you: we understand each other. Makes a change. An’, all that aside, I still figure you could use that Remington to advantage. Your advantage.”

  Nash thought about it briefly. “Mebbe you’re right. We’ll pick it up on the way out of town. After you saddle-up the broncs and strap on the supply packs.”

  Shannon nodded. “Suits me. Guess I’ll have to do the donkey work seein’ as you’ve only got one arm. But I’ll be kinda handicapped with my hands manacled, too.”

  Nash smiled. “The manacles stay put no matter how awkward it gets for you.”

  Shannon grinned and shrugged. “Was worth a try.”

  Nash nudged him out into the street with the gun barrel and they rode out of town a half-hour later, watched by curious folk on the walk—Shannon in the lead, followed by the packhorse, with Nash bringing up the rear. The Remington long-range rifle was strapped to the packhorse.

  They rode out to the river and turned downstream. There was a trail of sorts to follow for several miles but then it swung inland.

  Shannon halted at the bend, lifted his chained hands and pointed ahead towards the thickening timber and the rising hills beyond.

  “That’s the way we gotta go. No trail from here on in. Leastways, none that can be seen. The banks of the river get higher as we go into the hills.” He paused. “It’s kind of rugged.”

  “Never thought it’d be anythin’ else,” Nash replied. His wounded arm was back in its sling and it was giving him hell, although he tried not to let it show. He lifted his good arm and gestured. “Lead on. Just don’t get too far ahead.”

  “Now would I do that?” Shannon asked with a crooked smile, turning to nudge his horse forward. “You’ll see it’s impossible, anyways, once we get into the brush along the rims of the gorges. We’ll have to smash our way through.”

  “You’ll have to,” Nash corrected him, “seein’ as you’ll be out front.”

  Shannon said nothing, and moved his horse to a faster pace. The packhorse’s reins were looped over his saddlehorn and the animal whinnied in protest as it broke into a trot, its load moving up and down.

  Nash urged his mount after them, biting his lip as the pain shot through his arm and knifed up into his shoulder. Already, he felt light-headed and he thought he could feel some wetness under the bandages, indicating that maybe the wound had started bleeding again. Then again, it might only be sweat ...

  However, despite his best efforts he dropped back a little and the throbbing pain in his head clouded his thinking considerably. But he rode on doggedly and the hours passed in a kind of daze that he could fight no longer as it crawled over him and reached its numbing fingers into his brain ...

  They were riding the gorge rim and the river roared by far below, frothing over rocks, swirling in whirlpools and bursting over logs and snags. He looked up through the red haze that had been clouding his vision—and saw that he had dropped behind to the danger point. Shannon had rounded a corner up ahead and the packhorse was just disappearing around the bend in the rocks.

  There was a gap of ten yards between Nash and that horse.

  Despite the pain and dizziness, he slammed his heels into his mount and urged it into a run. He would have liked to have drawn his Colt but he needed his good hand for the reins. Then he realized he could hold them in his mouth ...

  His teeth closed over the leather as he neared the bend. Suddenly, there was a yell—and Shannon came thundering into view. He rammed his mount straight at
Nash’s horse. The Wells Fargo agent hadn’t been prepared for that. He had figured maybe Shannon would try to work the Remington rifle from the packhorse, even though the weapon wasn’t loaded ...

  Nash’s mount gave a wild, shrill whickering as the impact smashed it to the edge of the trail. The rock crumbled beneath the scrabbling hoofs and Nash was unable to grab at the saddlehorn or even pull his weight back inwards to help balance things up.

  It was inevitable that he went over the edge.

  He had enough presence of mind to kick his boots free of the stirrups as the squealing horse flailed and tipped almost upside down.

  Suddenly he was falling and twisting and somersaulting through the air and there was a blurred, whirling mixture of impressions: the blue of the sky, green of the timber, red and gray of the gorge walls—and the frothing white and brown of the river.

  It seemed strangely slow, so that Nash had time to make out individual things like a hawk’s nest on a dead tree jutting from the cliff ... a tree that had obviously been struck by lightning and had been split neatly in two ... a rock with a patch of scaled lichen on its face that resembled a map of North America ...

  And then there was an impact that smashed the breath from his body and the kaleidoscopic scenes disappeared in a milky brown light that swiftly darkened to pitch blackness as he sank down into the depths of the swift-flowing river.

  As lights exploded behind his eyes, he felt the strong fingers of the current snatch his battered body and whirl him away, battering him against unseen obstacles ...

  On the rim, Shell Shannon sat his mount, sober-faced, as he stared into the frothing waters of the roaring river below. The gorge was at its narrowest there and the water funneled through at a tremendous rate. He caught one brief glimpse of Nash as he was carried away ...

  Shannon sighed. There was some regret in the sound. He had liked Nash. The man was the toughest he had ever come up against—as ruthless, in his way, as himself. He would have made a good pard.

  It was too bad he had had to kill him. He knew he’d been lucky to get the chance. If Nash hadn’t been half out of his head with pain from that arm wound, he would never have had the opportunity to draw far enough ahead to set up that small ambush.

  Well, the main thing was it had worked and he was free again. Or would be as soon as he got free of the manacles. Shannon held up his hands. There was a foot of chain between them. It gave him some freedom, but not enough for his purposes. Nash had had the keys in his pocket. He had to think of a way of getting the damn chain off.

  There were no files or hammers on the pack horse, and there was no way he could ever smash the links in the toughened steel of the chain with rocks—even if he were able to get a decent swing ...

  He looked at the big Remington strapped to the pack. He frowned. What if Nash had put the box of cartridges somewhere among those supplies ...?

  Shannon dismounted, and slid the rifle out from under the binding straps on the packhorse. He pulled the rope that held the packs in place and spilled them to the ground. Impatiently, working awkwardly because of the manacles, he ripped open bags and sacks and parcels and finally, way down at the bottom where he could never have got at them in a hurry—he found the box of cartridges. Six special, copper-jacketed, high-powered cartridges.

  With luck, that ought to be enough for what he had in mind.

  Shannon loaded one of the cartridges into the breech, lowered the hammer and then moved to two rocks and jammed the weapon tightly down between them. He looked around until he found a long dry stick that was strong enough not to snap when he put pressure on it. Awkwardly, he cocked the rifle’s hammer again and straddled it, working the stick down carefully against the trigger. He jammed the free end of the stick under his belt at his right hip and, holding his breath, leaned down, stretching the chain across the muzzle of the rifle ...

  Shannon bared his teeth and leaned back. The stick pressed against the trigger, took up the slack—then jarred it free of the sear.

  The heavy Remington exploded violently, kicked free of the rocks and slammed upwards in recoil, smashing into Shannon’s crotch. He screamed as he was thrown as though he’d been bucked from a mustang. He crashed to the ground with the world spinning and his ears ringing ...

  It seemed hours before he was able to move. He did so very slowly, gasping at the knives of pain that twisted through his abdomen.

  Finally, he straightened his legs and he sat up very slowly ...

  The chain hung in two short lengths. His hands were separated again. Sure, they still had the cuffs on the wrists but that was nothing. He was free of the restricting chain. He grinned. The ache in his groin was worth it.

  He picked up the Remington and examined it closely. The stock and woodwork had been gouged a little by the rocks and some of the brassware had been scratched but it still worked perfectly.

  He took some food from the packs, jammed it into his saddlebags and, picking up the last five cartridges, climbed into the saddle. He loaded one cartridge into the Remington’s breech and dropped the others into his pocket.

  Then he rode away from the unloaded packhorse, and put his mount through the brush along the narrow trail that followed the rim of the canyon.

  If only he could remember the way to Gun Rock and if only those three hombres were still waiting there with the gold ...

  He began to whistle tunelessly through his teeth as he rode. Things were looking up again.

  Ace Crown ran a hand through his hair and took another turn around the campsite at the foot of the big boulder known as Gun Rock.

  Above him, the remains of the wooden trestle bridge that had been blown down in the war still jutted from the rock. Across the shallow river, were the remains of the bridge—barely visible as the afternoon shadows darkened the cliff face.

  Jed Crown and the man known as Coop were seated on their bedrolls, smoking. Both men had Winchesters close to their hands and all three of them from time to time looked towards the droop headed burro that stood patiently in the Rock’s shadow, a tarp bundle strapped to its back.

  Ace hooked a thumb in his gunbelt and tapped his fingers against the forward-facing butt, glancing at the sky.

  “I reckon we better be thinkin’ about pushin’ on,” he said abruptly. “Shark should’ve been here by now.”

  “He said he might have trouble gettin’ away what with them trail herds due in,” Jed replied.

  But Ace scoffed at such a notion. “Hell, you think he’s really gonna worry about keepin’ his job when he knows what’s waitin’ for him here?” He gestured towards the load on the burro’s back.

  “You ask me, we’ve more’n stuck by our part of the bargain. We’ve waited long past the time he gave us. I say we ought to move on. Never know with a hombre like Nash. He might get onto our trail an’ I sure as hell don’t want to tangle with him.”

  “Me, neither,” Coop said as he stood up, hefting his bedroll and looking from one brother to the other. “Anyways, we go now, we only have to split three ways.”

  Jed looked sharply at Ace who nodded jerkily. “Occurred to me, too. Jed—saddle-up. We’re pullin’ up stakes. Make down-river tonight far as Lubbock an’ then we can cut across to ...”

  His head snapped back on his shoulders and his feet lifted clear off the ground. It was if some giant, invisible hand had picked him up and flung him halfway across the camp—the back of his skull blown out and spraying blood and gore.

  As Jed and Coop, looked around, gap-mouthed, the crash of the rifle reached them.

  An instant later, Coop spun, grunting.

  Jed watched in horror as the man crashed into the campfire. He lay perfectly still, even though his clothes began to smolder.

  White-faced, Jed crouched as the second thunderclap of the sniping rifle reached his ears. Then he gave a frightened yelp and began to run towards his horse. One of his legs snapped out from under him and threw him in a flailing heap—the limb blown almost in two. He dimly heard the cras
h of the rifle as the fourth shot took him through the chest and shattered his heart and lungs.

  He was still twitching faintly when, minutes later, Shell Shannon rode in, the Remington in his hands, loaded with the last cartridge.

  He smiled when he saw the three dead men, then raised his eyes to the patient burro.

  The killer dismounted with a grunt and went to Coop.

  He unbuckled the man’s cartridge belt and holstered six-gun and fastened the rig around his own waist. It settled comfortably. Smiling, he tied down the base of the holster to his thigh, adjusted the rig to his liking and drew the Colt a couple of times.

  Feeling better that he was properly armed, but wishing he was rid of the iron cuffs, he picked up one of the Winchesters and with a last look of regret at the Remington, mounted his horse. He eased the mount towards the burro, leaned down, lifted the tethered rope and shook lose the knots.

  After tying the rope around his saddlehorn, he began whistling quietly then rode slowly out of the camp towards the river.

  He had only gone ten yards before he reined down abruptly, his hand dropping to his Colt.

  A man stood at the river’s edge, in torn, wet clothes.

  “Judas Priest,” Shannon breathed. “You got more lives than a cat.”

  Clay Nash gave him a cold stare.

  “The current carried me way downstream, Shannon. I remembered about the bridge, saw the remains on the cliff and knew Gun Rock had to be nearby. By the time I’d waded across you’d finished your work.” He gestured to the camp with its dead men. “But this is far as you go.”

  Shannon’s mouth twisted into a mocking smile.

  “You don’t look any too fit to stop me, Nash.”

  “I aim to try.”

  “Sure. You’re that kind of fool. I could offer you half share—fifty solid pounds of gold. It means a lot of money, amigo.”

  “Just climb down, Shannon,” Nash said wearily, his hand hovering over his Colt.

  The outlaw shrugged and Nash seemed somewhat surprised when the man dismounted and stood beside his horse. He’d made no attempt to drag iron as the Wells Fargo man had expected him to. Instead, he held out his hands with the manacle cuffs and the remnants of the chain dangling from his wrists.