by Brett Waring
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
When is a stage hold-up not a stage hold-up?
It was a question Wells Fargo’s top detective, Clay Nash, had to wrestle with.
The only answer he could come up with was that the hold-up was just cover for something else. But what? The murder of an inoffensive little Mexican carrying a bag full of documents?
As unlikely as it sounded, it was the only thing that made sense. But to confirm his suspicion, Clay had to track down the robbers … and that was easier said than done.
He thought they might have signed on with a trail crew pushing a herd of cattle to the town of Freedom. So Clay went undercover and joined the drive.
Now all he had to do was identify the outlaws … and discover why the little Mexican had to die!
CLAY NASH 23: WILD RIDE FROM SPANISH SPRINGS
By Brett Waring
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Digital Edition: August 2020
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
One – The Easy Run
“You’ll be able to sleep all the way on this one, Asa,” the Wells Fargo agent said as he handed the guard the necessary papers. “Nothin’ worth stealin’—an’ a bunch of passengers who look like they’re all headed for their own funerals. Be a right easy run, I reckon.”
Asa Coombs scowled as he took the papers and glanced at them before putting them in his pocket. He sniffed then spat to the side, hefting the loaded Greener shotgun.
“Just go easy with that ‘sleep’ talk, Jed,” he growled. “You’ll lose me my job if the wrong ears hear it.”
The agent winked and punched the guard lightly on one muscular shoulder. “Your secret’s safe with me, Asa. An’ the clerks an’ the driver, and the crew at the way station—not to mention the Indian agent out at Gray Dog Crossin’, an’ I think there’s that rancher from Gun Valley who rides reg’lar down to the railhead, an’ likely the hoss-wrangler he sometimes takes along an’ ...”
“You’re a load of laughs, Jed. Nice set of teeth showin’, too. But could be there’ll be a mighty big gap in ’em if you keep up the comedy act.”
He shoved the agent aside and strode across the platform to the stage. The agent staggered and the smile slid from his face. Maybe he’d gone just a little too far—even though everyone knew that Asa slept most of his runs ...
“Joke, Asa. Just a joke, amigo,” he called anxiously, for he’d seen the big guard hit men before. And one punch was usually enough.
“I’ll remember that, Jed,” Asa Coombs said as he swung into his seat and set his Greener butt in its leather pocket. He gripped the blued steel of the double barrels and glared down at the agent as the driver, Bede McCall, clambered aboard, reeking of whisky. He settled in the seat with a loud clearing of the throat, and tucked something in the front of his shirt.
Asa knew it was a flat bottle of cheap redeye from Mooney’s saloon. He scowled. Everyone joked about his sleeping, but no-one said anything about Bede McCall’s drinking during the long haul.
Sure, Bede supposedly drove better drunk than sober but Asa didn’t know how anyone could say that for sure, for no-one could recall the last time they’d seen McCall sober ...
Bede sorted through the reins of the patient team and wiped a dewdrop from the end of his bulbous nose, tilting his hat a little over his eyes.
On the platform, Jed took out his pocket watch and flipped open the cover.
“One minute behind sked, Bede,” he called.
McCall nodded and cracked the reins down the backs of the team. The animals slammed forward into harness, and Bede allowed the motion of the stage to settle him into his seat.
It was a smooth start, surprisingly enough, and the padre inside the coach who was drinking some ‘Painkiller’ from a bottle so labeled, hardly spilled more than a few drops.
Jed watched as the stage was tooled expertly down Main and then disappeared in a cloud of dust around the bend into Front Street. He put away his watch and went back into the agency, whistling.
He had no worries about that run. There was less than a thousand dollars in the express box, and the passengers looked as if they couldn’t raise ten dollars between them ...
Asa Coombs didn’t speak as McCall began to drink from the flat flask. Then, as the stage rumbled along the well-travelled trail south and despite his resolve not to doze at any cost after Jed’s ribbing, his eyes began to close ...
Two miles out of town, his head was lolling on his shoulders, his arms were folded and his left shoulder was jammed against the barrels of the Greener, making a solid rest.
McCall glanced at him, curled a lip and took a deeper pull from the flask. Some company, Asa Coombs. Always the same. Slept nine-tenths of the way. Used to be a top notch guard in Wells Fargo’s early days. Or so they said. And he was supposed to have taken on a bunch of six road agents once, and downed them all even though he was wounded four times. That earned him a gold pocket watch, engraved pistol and rifle and a five-hundred dollar bonus. It also got him a silver plate in the skull where one of the bandits’ bullets had gouged out a piece of bone. That was supposed to be the real reason he couldn’t stay awake for long and why he’d been given the easy runs.
Wells Fargo looked after their employees, even when they were old or crippled. Or both. Asa Coombs was really sleeping out the rest of his days—and Wells Fargo were paying him for it.
Bede McCall reckoned it wasn’t fair. If any road agent was loco enough to hold up the stage, Asa couldn’t be expected to do anything about it—and yet the Company paid him full wages. Sure, he had a temper that a man had to know how to gauge, or how far he could be pushed, but Asa was slow to get going and he would likely sleep through any hold-up attempt, anyway. Some protection, McCall thought, taking another pull of whisky, then yelling at the team to relieve some of his bitterness.
Inside the coach, the padre groaned and shifted to a more comfortable position, shook his head and brought out his bottle of ‘painkiller’. He sipped, smiling blandly at the sour old maid who sat primly with a lace handkerchief pressed lightly to her nostrils, her gimlet eyes were disapproving.
Beside her sat a worried-looking Mexican called Gomez.
His skin wasn’t quite as swarthy as most Mexicans and there was a slight softening of the usual Indian-like features. But he had the usual dark eyes and glistening black hair. He stared into space and clutched a soft, scuffed leather valise on his knees. There was a vague odor of spices coming from him and the old maid sniffed harder at her handkerchief.
The only other passenger was a drunken cowboy, fast asleep in one corner. The old maid regarded him with extreme distaste.
“Is this a very long run, ma’am?” the padre asked, smiling politely.
The woman tilted her chin. “I really have no idea,” she replied crisply. “It is a rare occasion when I am reduced to travelling by public transport, I assure you.”
She looked out the window, and the padre shrugged and took another drink. That was plainly the end of that conversatio
n. He nodded to the Mexican.
“Buenos dias, señor.”
The Mexican didn’t seem to hear. His mind was obviously far away from the rocking stagecoach. The padre sighed and took another swig from his bottle. He glanced at the cowboy, started to speak, but suddenly shook his head and returned to his bottle for solace. He sighed heavily.
It looked like being a very long journey ...
But the boredom of the passengers didn’t last long.
The stage hit the boulder-studded slope on the run down to the first river crossing, twenty-seven miles out of Spanish Springs. The blowing horses drank their fill and the driver ran a tongue across his lips to loosen them and yell to the passengers it was time for a break. “Gents to the right, ladies to the left.”
Suddenly, three masked and armed men rode from behind some boulders, covered to their boots with long linen dust coats.
The sun flashed from the guns in their hands as Bede McCall’s mouth went slack. He nudged Asa Coombs with an elbow as the coach door opened and the padre staggered out, turning to help down the old maid. She ignored his offered hand, glanced up, then abruptly collapsed as she saw the bandits. She fell with a splash and lay drowning in six inches of water as the padre fell to his knees in prayer.
It was the Mexican who had enough presence of mind to use a boot toe to roll the woman onto her back. She coughed and spluttered and began to come out of her daze. It was her piercing scream that jerked the cowboy awake and he clutched wildly at the top of his head as he slid between the seats, floundering.
Asa Coombs was awake, and both he and the driver had their hands thrust high into the air.
“You inside,” one of the three bandits said. “Get out here, pronto.”
The sick-looking cowboy staggered out and was just in time to help the Mexican lift the old maid to her feet. She was dripping wet, bedraggled, crying and shaking her head in terror.
“Shut up that racket, you old biddy,” the bandit cried. “Now.”
The woman dabbed at her eyes then gazed tearfully at the three men. “T ... take my jewelry, my money,” she gasped. “Only leave me ... my honor.”
There was a brief silence, then the outlaws began to chuckle. “By hell, lady, that’s one thing that is safe, you can bet on that,” one of them breathed. He glanced at the guard. “Throw down that Greener. Stick your finger and thumb down the barrels and lift it that way. Drop it on the far side of the stage, in the deep water next to the crossin’. Now.”
Asa Coombs’ face was tight as he did what he was told. “Now your six-guns. You, too, driver.”
The guns splashed into the water, and Bede McCall looked with tightlipped satisfaction at Asa as he muttered, “This finishes you with the Company now, Asa.”
“Shut up, booze-hound,” Asa snarled.
“Climb down, you two,” one of the outlaws snapped.
They obeyed and lined up with the passengers, their hands shoulder high. “All right, turn out your pockets and place your valuables in my pard’s hat.”
A man on a black gelding climbed down and came towards the line of people, removing his hat and revealing a thick crop of tousled brown hair.
The man on the paint removed the express box from under the seat and slung it on his saddlehorn while the padre opened his drawstring leather pouch and tipped in his meager pile of silver coins. “You’re robbing the church, my son. I beg you to reconsider.”
The bandit merely poked the padre in the stomach and pushed him back against the stage then moved on. The cowboy showed him empty pockets, and grinned, “Sorry, feller. Busted.”
His mistake was in grinning. It revealed a gold tooth. He gasped as the gun barrel smashed brutally into his mouth and he dropped to his knees, gagging, and spitting blood.
The bandit jerked the cowboy’s head up, fumbled at his mouth then dropped a blood-smeared gold tooth into his hat. He kicked the cowboy onto his side in the shallows.
The old maid fainted and flopped into an untidy sitting position, propped up by the rear wheel of the stage. The bandit ripped off her brooch and rings and the cameo pendant on the slim gold chain from around her scrawny neck. He dropped the things into the hat and turned to the Mexican who was clutching his valise.
“C’mon, greaser,” the bandit muttered.
“I have nothing. It took all my money to buy my stage ticket to Austin.”
“Hogwash. What you got in that there valise?” The bandit reached for the leather pouch and the Mexican wrenched it back against him. The bandit’s eyes slitted above the bandanna mask. “I don’t like greasers. Gimme any trouble an’ I’ll blow your lousy goddamn head off.”
“No. There are only ... papers. I show you ...”
“Watch it, he might have a gun in there,” yelled the bandit on the paint as the Mexican began to raise the flap of the valise and reach inside.
The bandit’s gun roared and the Mexican was lifted to his toes by the upward angle of the bullet. He slammed into the coachwork, his shirt staining with blood. The bandit shot him twice more, although the bullets were hardly necessary: the first slug had taken Gomez squarely through the heart.
He dropped to his knees, then spilled onto his face in the shallows, red clouds of blood drifting away on the current. The bandit reached down and yanked the valise from beneath the body, glared challengingly at the others, then backed off towards his mount. No one attempted to stop him as he climbed back into the saddle. Then he nodded to his pards and they walked their mounts backwards out of the shallows and onto solid ground again.
The man on the paint lifted his Colt, sighted briefly, and shot the off-side lead horse. The rest of the team reared and plunged wildly, tangling themselves in the harness. Then, without another word, the three road agents turned and spurred away, instantly lost to sight among the trees and boulders.
The padre and the cowboy helped the semi-conscious woman into the coach while the driver rolled the Mexican onto his back.
Asa Coombs stood by the front wheel with clenched fists.
“Lend a hand, damn it,” Bede McCall growled.
But Asa waded around to the other side of the stage and stepped into deep water. He gulped down air and sank beneath the surface, groping about. He returned to the others in a few minutes, dripping wet, and carrying the shotgun and his six-gun rig.
McCall frowned at him. “What the hell you worryin’ about salvagin’ them things for? Gimme a hand to get the dead bronc out of the harness so’s we can get the stage goin’ again, you damn idiot.”
Asa Coombs swung up the Greener and slammed McCall across the side of the head, dropping him to his knees.
The others watched silently as Coombs shucked out the wet shells from the Greener’s breech. Then he took a rag from under his seat, swiftly wiped the gun and lifted out a box of fresh shells. He thumbed two home, rested the Greener on the seat and buckled on his six-gun rig, and turned to the cowboy.
“Lend a hand to get one of them hosses free, wrangler.”
“Hell, what you aim to do?” the cowboy asked, wading towards the tangle of leather and horses.
“Go after ’em. You or McCall can ride another bronc into the way station or town an’ get a posse back here an’ a relief team.”
“You can’t leave us here without protection,” the padre cried.
“Shut your mouth,” Coombs snarled.
Suddenly, he felt better than he had in a long, long time. Bede McCall was right, of course. It was his fault. He should have been awake and alert. The only way he could try to make up for his laxity was to go after the bandits and try to recover the loot.
He’d show Jim Hume and the other top brass at Wells Fargo that he hadn’t lost his touch—that they hadn’t paid his salary all that time for nothing. He’d prove it to them—or die in the attempt.
Two – Ghosts Go North
There were four men in the wilderness camp, but Clay Nash didn’t aim to let any of them walk away from there.
He was on the ri
m of a small draw overlooking the camp, his Winchester covered by the corn sack poncho he wore across his shoulders. Nash, top trouble-shooter for Wells Fargo, had been trailing the hombres for weeks and had walked three miles into the hills after his mount went lame, determined he was going to find the gang before dark.
And he had.
He knew by the casual way they lounged around the fire beneath the overhang of rock that they had no idea he was so close. They likely figured they’d lost him in the canyon country but they had reckoned without Nash’s determination ...
He could track a fly across a desert, it was said, and certainly the four outlaws would have sworn no one could have found their trail for they were experts at escaping the law.
But Nash had found enough to lead him there, even through the rain. And he didn’t aim to give them any kind of a break.
After they’d held up the express van on the Victory Pass train, they hadn’t given the Wells Fargo guards a chance. They had stuffed wasps’ nests and blazing brush into the car through the vents and, as the frantic guards ran out, they had been shot down in their tracks. The train crew had also been slaughtered and two passengers who had tried to buy in had been wounded. One man would be a cripple for the rest of his life—and he had a wife and seven kids, with an eighth on the way.
So Nash felt nothing for the killers gathered in the camp below as they dragged out the iron-bound express box, figuring it was safe enough to start dividing the spoils.
As the big, bearded leader drew his six-gun to shoot off the padlock, Nash drew bead on his head. He fired—and the other three bandits were stunned to see the padlock on the box shatter at the very instant that their boss’ head seemed to explode from his shoulders.
But as the twitching body fell, they threw themselves about in search of cover, reaching for their irons.
Nash’s rifle whiplashed again, and one man jerked upright, shooting wild as he was slammed back by the Wells Fargo operative’s lead. But the other two had Nash spotted by the gun’s flash stabbing through the gloom.
