Clay Nash 23

by Brett Waring

  “I ... I was to nail you ... or whoever it was,” the man gasped. “I ... I trailed you outta town. Shoulda gotten you first ... volley ...”

  “Hard luck on you that you didn’t, mister.” Nash said twisting the gun barrel. “You speaking gospel or have I gotta lay your face open like a gutted fish?”

  “No. No,” the man groaned. “Tr ... truth. Honest.”

  “Describe the hombre who gave you the money.”

  “B ... big ... beard. Hat pulled low. Black hair, I think. It ... it was dark. In the alley near my lean-to. Back of the Deuces High Saloon in town. I ... I never seen him ... before ... Aw, Gawd, can’t you get me a sawbones ...?”

  “Be no use,” Nash said crisply as he stood to reload his Colt. “I’ll wait till you die and bury you deep as I can. See you don’t get tore up by the wild dogs. Best I can do.”

  The man groaned as Nash sat back on a boulder and began to roll a cigarette. Seemed like he was on the right trail anyway, he mused.

  The three thousand steers were strung out in a long line across the plains. Dust rose in choking clouds as the beasts lumbered on, their heads hanging low at the end of the long, weary day. Cowboys rode back and forth around the edges, chousing in breakaways and hazing the herd along, for they, too, wanted to rest.

  Flat, featureless terrain stretched ahead and away to the rear. To the west there was sign of some low hills and buttes, and to the east a mesa rose into the darkening sky. There didn’t seem to be a sign of water within a hundred miles, but Largo Dunn knew every waterhole and soak from the Mexican border to Nebraska.

  He was a tall, rangy man of fifty, weathered from long years in the saddle. He was a legend all through the big cattle-producing States, and it was said that in his day, he’d delivered more than a million steers to rail heads and loading pens.

  But he looked ordinary. His clothes were practical and patched like those of the men who drove the cattle on his orders.

  He rode a wire-muscled mount that he could control expertly with his knees, and sat an old-style Texas saddle, developed in the ’50s, dispensing with the elaborate skirting of the California Mission saddle that had been favored up until that time.

  Largo Dunn favored a lot of the old ways. But if a man were far-sighted enough and patient enough to entrust Largo Dunn with his cattle to drive to the northern markets, he could bet on getting a higher price. Dunn guaranteed to get the steers there in prime condition.

  If he had troubles along the way with stampedes and floods or fires, or anything else that might run the fat off the beasts, then he bedded them down a couple weeks short of market in as lush a pasture as he could find and allowed the steers to gain weight again.

  A man got a fair shake from Largo Dunn and he was known far and wide as a man to ride the river with, a man, as one Indian had said, ‘with the look of eagles’. But maybe it wasn’t that he meant so much that Largo was a visionary, as he was referring to the trail man’s hawk like features and curving beak of a nose ...

  And that nose was sniffing as Largo’s head tilted back and to one side.

  One of the point riders, a likeable hellion named Pecos Smith, looked quizzically at the trail boss. Largo lifted his right hand and moved it in a downward chopping motion, pointing slightly west of north.

  “Water’s there,” he announced in a gravelly voice. “In a small basin. Shallow hole, so take ’em in no more than a hundred at a time, Pecos, or we’ll have a damn mud pool on our hands.”

  “Right, boss,” Pecos said, grinning, lifting off his hat to wipe a forearm across his dusty forehead. “Won’t be sorry to spread the blankets this night. Been a bitch of a day in this heat.”

  “Gonna get hotter before we get to Freedom,” Largo said soberly. “Best get movin’, Pecos.”

  The man turned away, yelling orders to the others and by full dark, the herd was down in the hollow basin, spread out around the wide, shallow waterhole, bedding down or cropping the short grass.

  The chuck wagon was set up on a small rise, and the fire was started as the cook, known as Poison Pete, moved about from one pot to another ...

  The cook was the tyrant of any trail camp and he had it in his power to make life mighty miserable for the trail hands if they upset him.

  On the other hand, a good trail cook could turn the hell of a cattle drive into something close to pleasant.

  Poison Pete was a good trail cook and he knew it. He was about forty, long and lean, not a good advertisement for his own culinary accomplishments, but the trail hands had no real complaints ...

  Johnny Marks, the horse wrangler, squatted on a log beside Largo Dunn and forked stew into his mouth.

  “That bay gelding’s gonna throw a shoe soon, boss. I’ll need to tend to it in the mornin’ before we move along,” he said.

  “Okay. Take McPhee if you need a hand. How about the rest?”

  “Seem okay. That buckskin might have a saddle sore comin’. Butterfield was ridin’ him yesterday with that damn California rig he favors. He’s repaired it hisself an’ the leather overlap is what’s causin’ the irritation, I reckon. He won’t use a blanket. Wish you’d speak to him about it, boss.”

  “He’ll be spoke to,” Largo assured the wrangler. “You let me know if you figure anyone’s mistreatin’ his bronc.”

  Marks nodded and continued eating.

  The men, except those on duty, lounged around the camp, having a final smoke before turning in.

  A few of the men shook out their blankets and lay them out, spreading their bedrolls. They had little energy left for pranks and jokes—although Dumplin’ Dan yelled blue murder when he found the dead rattler in the bottom of his war bag. He glared around at the deadpan, staring faces, but no one owned up.

  Afterwards, when he was snoring, Pecos Smith began to snigger and had to stuff his kerchief in his mouth to smother the sound.

  Largo Dunn, still smoking near the chuck wagon, smiled crookedly.

  “Damn you, Pecos. One of these days someone’s gonna kill you for your pranks and I’ll be a good man short.”

  Smith’s eyes streamed with tears of laughter.

  “Maybe I could replace him,” said a voice from the edge of darkness beyond the circle of the fire light.

  Dunn swung swiftly towards the sound.

  A dusty, trail-stained horseman sat his mount just at the edge of light, his hands folded in the universal peace sign on the saddlehorn. Largo’s eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze over the stranger—then stood and spoke the timeless words of welcome that the newcomer knew he would.

  “Light an’ eat, stranger. There’s plenty left from supper.”

  “Much obliged,” Clay Nash said as he kneed his weary bronc into the camp and dismounted ...

  Four – Trail Hand

  Nash pushed his tin plate aside and sipped the coffee. Poison Pete was hovering around, pretending to watch his young assistant, Kid, scrub the cauldron. But Nash knew he was really waiting for a compliment about his grub. All trail cooks were egomaniacs, he thought amusedly.

  “By Godfrey, Cooky, that was the finest meal I’ve had in a coon’s age.” He glanced at Largo Dunn as the cook’s chest swelled, despite his scowl of indifference. “You must have a mighty happy trail crew here, Mr. Dunn, gettin’ grub like that served up to ’em.”

  “They get by,” Largo allowed with a faint smile. “You don’t see any of ’em starvin’, leastways.”

  The cook snorted, cuffed the boy, then moved into his chuck wagon, grumbling about having to sort out his supplies for the following day while everyone else had a chance to roll up in their blankets.

  “Where you headed, Mr. Dunn?”

  “Freedom. Beef shortage up there and buyers are gatherin’, comin’ down from the north. Gonna get top dollar for these beeves.”

  “You on a bonus?”

  Largo Dunn snapped his head up. “Whether I am or not, it’s nothin’ to do with you, stranger. You said your name was what?”

  “Clayton. M
ost everyone calls me Clay. Been so long since anyone used my first name, I swear I forget what it is.”

  Dunn grunted and filled his pipe bowl again, reaching down for a twig from the campfire. Nash was closer and scooped up a burning twig. He held it for the trail boss who nodded curtly, ducked his head and looked at Nash through the cloud of blue smoke as he puffed away.

  “What you doin’ out here? Goin’ north, too?”

  “North, south, east—don’t matter much.”

  “You didn’t mention west.”

  “No.”

  Largo waited but Nash said no more. He knew the trail boss would be figuring that he was maybe on the run from something that happened out to the west. It was the inference Nash wanted him to get and neither of them spoke while Nash built a cigarette and lit up.

  “Need an extra trail hand?” Nash asked abruptly.

  “Got all I need. All experienced men.”

  “I’ve pushed cows up and down the Chisholm and the Old Shawnee. Rode with Caldwell on the Big Drive along the Goodnight-Loving in ’68.”

  Largo Dunn looked sharply at Nash and there was more respect in his gray gaze as he puffed slowly at his pipe. “That was mighty rough, they tell me.”

  “Snow up to a hoss’s ass,” Nash agreed. “That goddamn blizzard came out of nowhere in the early spring. Never been known to happen before or since. We lost fifteen hundred steers and eleven men. I was riding drag when the avalanche come down. Lucky for me. If I’d been on point, I’d’ve gone along with Caldwell’s son an’ the others.”

  “What you been doin’ since then, Clayton?”

  “This and that. I’ve worked trail herds and ranches. Even tried homesteadin’, but the little woman couldn’t stand it and walked out on me. Since then ...” He shrugged, voice trailing off.

  “That kind of thing can make a man—bitter at times,” Dunn said after a spell. “Make him—reckless. Do all kinds of crazy things. As if he’s gettin’ back at the woman.”

  Nash said nothing.

  “Well, sorry I can’t use you, Clayton. I’ll give you a note to Will Carney in Freedom. Might be able to use you at the holdin’ pens.”

  “Right kind of you. But I gotta tell you, I’d only stick it long enough to get a few bucks together and then I’d drift. Wide open spaces are for me.”

  “For all of us. You can spread your blanket over yonder for the night.”

  Nash stood and took a good look at the trail hands. Some were already sleeping, others were darning socks or shirts or mending saddle gear. They all met his gaze, but only a couple nodded by way of greeting. Nash kept his face blank. He’d counted five men with black hair. If the bandits had joined the trail herd as Hume suspected, he was going to have one hell of a job identifying them. It would be a damn’ sight harder than he’d thought ...

  It was time for the night hawks to come in for supper. The relief men rode out while Nash unslung his bedroll and spread it on the ground where Dunn had indicated. The two relieved men came in shortly afterwards and Nash smiled crookedly as the cook roared at them and made them wash-up before he would dish up any supper.

  “Don’t care how goddamn tired you is,” Poison Pete said. “You don’t eat my grub till you got clean hands.”

  When the men finally squatted by the campfire, Nash stiffened.

  He knew one of them. A hard case named Butterfield who’d been involved in a Wells Fargo depot robbery once. Nash had run him to earth and the man had served six months on the rock pile in Yuma. But it had been a long time ago. Maybe Butterfield wouldn’t recognize him. He immediately tugged his hat over his eyes, spread his blanket and rolled up in it.

  Pretending to sleep, he heard Butterfield speak to Dunn:

  “Who’s the stranger?”

  “Name of Clayton. Drifter. Could be law behind him someplace. Seems a mite leery.”

  “He’s comin’ with us to Freedom?”

  “Nope. I ain’t in the charity business. I got all the crew I need.”

  Butterfield grunted and said no more.

  After a while, Nash heard him turn in, followed by his pard. Soon the camp was still and silent as Poison Pete and the Kid finally hit the hay ...

  Come morning, there was wild activity in the camp as the day crew tumbled out and shivered in the early chill, cursing the cook about not having a meal ready. The Poisoner retorted sourly and Nash noted that the men quietened down pretty smartly at his curt tones. He guessed they knew when it was time to keep their joshing to themselves when the cook was in a foul mood. Maybe the man had been at the ‘medicinal’ whisky bottle or the essences in his mobile pantry.

  “You can eat breakfast, and then you’ll have to mosey on alone, Clayton.”

  Nash finished pulling on his boots and looked up at Dunn with a smile. “Obliged, Mr. Dunn. If you could give me that note for the agent in Freedom ...?”

  “You’ll have it,” Dunn said and moved away to shout some orders.

  Nash lined up for breakfast and when he was taking his plate of beans to a rock where he aimed to sit, he tripped over a man’s leg and spilled most of his food. The man laughed harshly. Nash straightened, then looked down into the face of Butterfield, sprawled innocently on his blanket, forking up beans.

  “Kinda clumsy, feller,” Butterfield said.

  “You’re kinda takin’ up half the lousy camp,” Nash retorted.

  Butterfield snapped his head up and his mouth curled in a sneer that froze when he looked straight into Nash’s face. Recognition was slowly coming into his eyes.

  “By hell, it’s ...”

  Nash had to shut the man up.

  He suddenly kicked Butterfield in the ribs as the man began to say his name, and the syllables were lost in the gusting groan that escaped his mouth. Then Nash tipped the remainder of his beans over the man’s head—and the trail men roared.

  “Picked a tough one there, I’d say, Butt,” Pecos Smith called. Smith was a man who enjoyed a fight almost as much as a practical joke.

  “No fighting, damn it,” Largo Dunn roared, striding across the camp. “I don’t want none of my men injured or tryin’ to work with busted hands. Now you two quit this ri …”

  Nash eased a boot forward and, out of sight of the angry trail boss, placed the sole over Butterfield’s fingers. Then he put all his weight on the boot.

  Butterfield yelled and roared to his feet with a string of savage curses. Largo Dunn lunged for him but it was too late. Butterfield knocked Dunn to one side then charged at Nash, who was turning away as if complying with Largo’s request.

  But he swung back with fist cocked, and his knuckles exploded in the middle of Butterfield’s face. The big man stopped dead as blood sprayed from his nostrils and lips. His head jerked on his beefy shoulders and his whole body quivered. He shook his head then wiped the back of a hand across his nose.

  After a brief pause, Butterfield roared and slammed a backhand blow as Nash stepped forward. The Wells Fargo man wrenched his head aside but not quite fast enough. The hard knuckles caught him on the side of the face and he tasted blood as his cheek was crushed against his teeth.

  He staggered.

  Butterfield kicked at his legs and the Wells Fargo man thudded to the ground—only to receive a vicious kick in the ribs.

  One arm flopped into the camp fire and he wrenched it back swiftly. Butterfield dropped to his knees on the arm and tried to push Nash’s hand into the flames. Nash bucked and writhed, then pronged two fingers into Butterfield’s eyes. The man screamed and reared back, clawing at his face. Nash came up and moved in close, slugging at the man’s midriff.

  When his face was close against the sagging cowman’s ear, he snarled:

  “Drag iron, you son of a bitch, or I’ll nail you where you stand.”

  Butterfield staggered back then drove for his six-gun. To the others, it looked as if Butterfield had turned coward.

  Nash instantly palmed his gun and a single shot crashed out across the trail camp.

&nb
sp; Butterfield was slammed back by the strike of the lead, taking him high in the chest. He ran backwards for several yards, crashed into the chuck wagon, then his legs buckled and slid out from underneath his body. His head rapped the spokes of the big wheel until he finally sat down with a jolt. Then, eyes bulging with pain and mouth working wordlessly, he tipped slowly to the side and went deathly still.

  The camp had frozen at the gunshot.

  Nash let the empty cartridge case drop out of his gun’s cylinder and replaced it with a fresh one from his belt. He glanced across to Largo Dunn whose face was like granite.

  “Now you’re short a hand, Mr. Dunn. Can I have the job?”

  The camp was stunned.

  “By hell, you got your gall, mister,” Pecos Smith said crisply.

  “Tellin’ me he has,” young Johnny Marks said. “Kill a man—then ask for his job.”

  “I didn’t want to kill him,” Nash said. “He was the one went for his gun. I didn’t aim to stand still and let him put daylight into me.” Then he turned back to Dunn. “Can’t blame me, Mr. Dunn. I knew a shot might spook the herd, but I had no choice. I had to defend myself. And it was Butterfield who tripped me up and started the whole damn thing.”

  “I guess that’s true enough, boss,” the cook said, his face hard as he studied Nash. “But the way this here hombre got that Colt out an’ workin’, I’d say he’s more than just a trail hand.”

  “What about that, Nash?” Largo demanded. “I hold the same opinion.”

  Nash shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “Well—look, it’s this way. I am a mite faster with a gun than the normal feller …”

  “A mite?” Pecos Smith cried.

  Nash ignored the comment and said, “I don’t use my gun to settle trouble, unless I’m forced into it. Like just now. I don’t hunt trouble, but sometimes it finds me and sometimes I got no choice but to drag iron. I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Dunn. Only a week or so back, in a place called Spanish Springs, I got into a little ... trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Seems there was a Wells Fargo hold-up. A Mex breed got hisself killed. Now, I ain’t got anything much against Mexes or breeds, but I’d had a few red-eyes and I happened to say in passin’ that likely he was no loss anyway. Some feller took exception to it and kicked up one helluva fuss. It got past the name-callin’ stage an’ he slapped leather. I ... well, I nailed him. That’s why I’m sort of driftin’ up this way now.”