by Brett Waring
There seemed to be fresh claims each day. He tried to tell them that it would all be fixed by insurance companies, that the herd’s owners, a small Cattlemen’s Association down South, would see that all repairs were paid for. But folk out there didn’t know how insurance worked and there was more time lost while he tried to explain.
Finally, he called a meeting of the townsfolk in the square and spelled it all out. They seemed satisfied except that many people expected to see the repairs done at once. Largo shot off some telegraph messages to the Association, trying to explain the position.
He had to find another chuck wagon, which wasn’t easy as they were especially constructed vehicles. But he managed to locate a big old Conestoga with high sides that a local man agreed to convert under the instructions of Poison Pete. A cupboard containing a series of smaller, lidded boxes was built onto the back. More supplies were bought and stowed and while the wagon was being converted, the Poisoner cooked over an open fire.
Largo Dunn rode in one sundown with a group of his men who hazed in a bunch of steers and added them to the herd on the holding flats. The animals were settling down and the calmness of those already collected helped the newcomers. Dunn handed his horse over to Johnny Marks and walked stiffly across to where the cook sweated at his fire. A big battered coffee pot swung on an iron hook over the flames, and the trail boss poured himself a cup.
“When we gonna move?” Poison Pete asked curtly.
Largo seemed mildly surprised at the man’s tone. “Give it another day. That’s about all the steers we’re gonna collect now.”
“Can’t be soon enough for me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The whole damn place. Workin’ over an open fire all the time. Miss my wagon.” He paused, then added, in a quieter voice, “Miss the Kid, too.”
Largo allowed his surprise to show openly. “Thought you were just usin’ him, the way you used to push him around.”
The cook shrugged awkwardly. “Aw, he had to learn. No use bein’ too soft. But ... I liked him, Largo.”
The trail boss slowly rolled a cigarette. “Goin’ soft in your old age, Pete?”
“Reckon you ought to know better than that. No ... I just took a shine to the Kid. Reminded me of ... myself when I was a button. Ran off with a trail herd, just like he done.”
Largo fired his cigarette. “Well, can’t be helped now. Don’t get to broodin’. We’ll be in Freedom in about a week. More ways than one.”
“You’re gonna lose a bonus, ain’t you?”
“Yeah. For every day over fifty on the trail. Gonna have to push like hell once we start again.”
“Men short, too ... McPhee, Brandon, Nash.”
“I can replace ’em in Chicimec before we pull out. You want me to try and get you a helper?”
The cook hesitated, then nodded, but almost immediately shook his head. “No. I’ll manage.”
Largo pursed his lips and scrubbed a hand gently around stubbled jowls as he moved away slowly. Pecos Smith intercepted him and gestured towards the Poisoner.
“What’s wrong with Pete?”
“Upset over the Kid.”
“Yeah?” Pecos was genuinely startled.
“Yeah,” Largo replied heavily.
Pecos pursed his lips as he watched the cook moving about the camp fire and Largo moved away. Johnny Marks down by the remuda’s rope corrals stared across the camp with a frown ...
Nash was running short of water. He still had grub and would have for several days with rationing, but the water in his canteens was dropping alarmingly. There had been no springs or soaks that he could find and he’d lost McPhee’s trail for a whole day.
But he’d located it again and he figured the man would have to be making for water, too. It seemed to Nash that the killer had deliberately stayed away from sources of water.
There was a broken ridge ahead that Nash figured could be a trap. There had been no more attempts at ambush but he was leery of any place that might afford a bushwhacker cover.
The sun was westering and Nash knew he’d be sky lined when he crossed that ridge. There was no way around. He had to go up and over—and that he didn’t like. He unsheathed the Winchester, took some spare shells, stuffed them in his shirt pocket, then ground-hitched his weary horse. A few birds twittered somewhere ahead and Nash swallowed painfully, thinking that likely meant there was some sort of water supply up there.
He climbed to the top of the ridge, dropped flat, and slithered up to the crest. Nash removed his hat before looking over, feeling the warmth of the rocks through his clothes. Dust tickled his nostrils and he hurriedly pinched his nose as he sneezed, cutting it off in time.
He saw two small birds wheeling overhead and ran a raspy tongue across scaled and split lips.
There were some small rocks nearby and he eased over to them, and used them as cover while he took a look at what was on the far side of the ridge.
McPhee was down there. The man’s horse was down, heaving and bucking, and trying to get its weakened hind legs under it. McPhee himself was ten yards ahead, kneeling and ripping apart some dusty green brush, a dozen or so small birds fluttering and hovering above him as they protested frantically.
Nash knew the man had found a soak and was widening the opening so he could get to it. He lifted the rifle and sighted—but just as he squeezed off his shot, McPhee lunged forward and plunged his face into the small soak, scooping water into his parched face.
The Wells Fargo man’s bullet thunked into the moist and mossy bank only inches above McPhee. The killer spun away instantly, and grabbed his rifle.
The horse still struggled to get up as McPhee rolled away down the slope, over and over, working the lever on his rifle as he did so. Clay’s lead punched into the ground all around him and then he used his legs to drive his thick body in a headlong dive over some low rocks, but one slug had found its mark and McPhee twisted in mid-air as the lead struck home. He hit hard and his boots protruded above the rocks briefly—then were withdrawn slowly. Nash swore. He’d only winged the man it seemed.
A few moments later he had proof of that as McPhee’s rifle opened up and his lead stitched a line of slugs along the ridge towards Clay’s position. The Wells Fargo detective rolled away to the side, slid back several feet, then, crouching, ran across the face of the ridge, veering towards the top where there was a natural buttress and a break in the rocks.
He threw himself into his new shelter and grinned tightly as he saw it gave him a view down into McPhee’s shelter.
He could see the man’s legs—and deliberately drew a bead on McPhee’s left ankle, then squeezed off his shot. The leg jerked as if yanked on a wire—then McPhee screamed and his body came into view as he rolled over and sat up with a jerk, snatching at his shattered ankle.
Clay calmly shot him through the chest.
He stood and crossed the ridge, angling across the loose slope. There was no sign of any of McPhee’s friends.
But the man’s horse was lame and down and the killer had sure been mighty thirsty. It didn’t seem possible that the man’s pards would rig an ambush and then desert him. Unless the killer had deliberately tried to lead Nash away from some outlaw hideout ...? No, he didn’t go along with that, either. But something seemed haywire ...
As he rounded the rocks, McPhee was waiting for him, propped up with his shoulders resting in a natural arc of the rocks, one hand pressed into his bloody chest, and a ribbon of scarlet slowly oozing from his mouth and dripping from his chin. He had obviously been fighting to hold on—hoping to get one last shot at Nash. But he was too weak, and simply held his six-gun without the strength to operate it.
Nash kicked away the man’s Colt and knelt beside him.
“You’re all through, Mac.”
McPhee stared with glazing eyes. His breath rattled and bubbled harshly.
Nash straightened.
“Just one thing I can do for you now, Mac, and that’s see you get burie
d deep enough to keep the animals from you.”
McPhee stirred uneasily and made some guttural sounds.
“One thing you can do for me before you go, Mac—tell me who the third man is. I nailed Brandon and your rustlin’ pards. Now I’ve got you. But who was the third hombre you were with when you held-up that Spanish Springs stage?”
Nash was surprised at McPhee’s reaction. The man’s eyes widened and he actually sat up before slumping back, one explosive word passing his bloody lips.
“No.”
“What d’you mean ‘no’? You mean you won’t tell me who the other hombre was? Or you sayin’ you didn’t hold-up the stage?” The killer shook his head.
“You didn’t rob the stage?” he asked again, wanting to be sure he took McPhee’s meaning correctly.
The killer’s head again moved from side to side.
“Ten double eagles bearing the same dates as those taken from the stage were found in the camp after the stampede. Right where you had your bedroll.”
McPhee didn’t react for a spell and then he made a supreme effort and lifted an arm, one blood-caked finger pointing to his downed mount. Nash looked in that direction, trying to figure what the killer was trying to tell him. Then he saw it. McPhee’s bedroll and saddlebags on the horse.
“Hell,” Nash breathed. “Then someone lied to me about those gold pieces ... Maybe not. They could’ve still been yours. That might be Brandon’s saddlebags or bedroll on your bronc.”
“N ... no st ... st ... stage ...” he managed to rasp. Nash moved aside hurriedly as there was a spray of blood exploding towards him, then he scrubbed a hand across his stubbled chin.
“Doesn’t make sense, Mac. And you had someone bushwhack me in the foothills, too, to make sure I never got this close. I didn’t nail him but set him runnin’ with his tail between his legs ... Look, quit shakin’ your damn head, will you? What’s the sense in lying when you’re about to cash in your chips?”
Nash cut his words off abruptly. He had just answered his own question before it had been properly voiced: there was absolutely no sense in McPhee lying when he was that close to death. No sense at all ...
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Nash breathed. “You ain’t lying, are you, Mac? No ... I get it now. You and Brandon set it up with the rustlers to meet you on the flats outside Chicimec, so’s you could cut out a bunch of prime steers an’ sell ’em. But that was it. Just the rustlin’?”
McPhee nodded slowly, having trouble in getting down a breath at all. “N ... no st ... stage,” he gasped.
Nash nodded gently. “No. I been fooled. That money must’ve belonged to someone else. They suspected I was from Wells Fargo or some kind of law. Yeah, that’s right, Mac. I’m a Wells Fargo man. They sent me off after you, claimin’ you’d have those gold pieces. Then one of ’em rode on ahead and tried to bushwhack me. It didn’t work, but they knew I’d figure it was you or one of your pards trying to nail me. And I guess they hoped I’d be finished in the Breaks, and they’d have a free run to trail’s end where Largo would pay ’em off and they’d disappear ...”
Nash glanced at McPhee suddenly, realizing the bubbling sounds had stopped. He was talking to a dead man.
He stood. He’d bury McPhee, then head back to the trail herd. For he was mighty interested in talking to a live man there—Johnny Marks, the horse wrangler. The man who’d lied about the gold pieces ...
Seven – Missing Man
The herd would be well along the trail to Freedom, Nash figured, and that suited him for the moment. He found his way out of the Cortes Breaks with some difficulty before his grub ran out.
He headed for the camp site of the trail herd outside of Chicimec and was happy enough to find it empty except for a large blackened patch on the grass where the remains of the wrecked chuck wagon had been burned. Without dismounting from his weary horse, Nash read the sign of a new chuck wagon trundling along behind the herd that he guessed Largo was driving at a much faster rate than previously. The trail boss would want to make up for lost time.
Nash headed in to town and traded his weary horse for a fresh mount—a high-stepping black which the livery man promised to have groomed, fed and saddled for him by the time he got back from the telegraph office down the street.
In the small building, Nash took one of the message forms, thought for a time, then wrote out what he wanted to say. The message was addressed to Jim Hume in Spanish Springs.
THINK COVER BLOWN. SENT WILD GOOSE CHASE CONTINUING TO FREEDOM AND HOPING FOR BEST.
CLAYTON.
When the operator read the message he snapped his head up. “You’re Mr. Clayton? From the Largo Dunn trail drive?”
“Yeah. Why?”
The man turned to a pigeonhole and took out a sealed envelope which he handed to Nash. “Wire for you. From this feller Hume. Been settin’ here nigh on a week. I asked Largo’s man, Pecos about you but he said he didn’t think you was comin’ back. But he wanted to take it anyways. I wouldn’t let him. Regulations, you know. I mean, mayhap you get yourself killed, but if there’s a wire addressed to you care of this here office, it sets there till Judgment Day. I go by the book, Mr. Clayton.”
If the man was angling for a tip, then Nash figured he had earned himself one and he absently flipped a silver dollar across the counter and nodded when the man thanked him effusively while he read Hume’s message.
BECOMING MORE COMPLICATED, DANGEROUS. BIG STAKES SUSPECTED. TAKE CARE. REPEAT, TAKE CARE. TRUST NO ONE.
HUME.
Nash read the message again and the lantern jaw knotted as he slowly crumpled the form in his gnarled hands. Yeah, he thought, take care was right. He wondered what ‘big stakes’ Hume was talking about? Sounded like the Detective Chief was onto something, anyway.
He paid for the message to be sent, then picked up his horse, stopped off at the saloon for a bath, a drink and a decent meal, in that order, then rode out of town after the trail herd.
He came within sight of it, just before sundown the following day. The dust cloud rising against the sinking sun, painted gold and pastel orange, smoky against the throbbing blue, told him that the herd was moving fast. Nash had had to push his big black to cover the miles in the time he had and he was surprised at the distance that Largo’s herd had travelled.
But instead of riding straight in, Nash held back, waited under a clump of trees on a convenient ridge, munching on hardtack while his horse grazed nearby, watching the trail herd make camp by a narrow river with steep banks. The chuck wagon was already set up and the fire was going. He could see the thin column of smoke but the wind was blowing the wrong way for him to catch any savory odors. Using his field glasses, he inspected every area around the camp.
He saw the Poisoner, working alone at his fire and serving bench. He recognized Pecos Smith, Dumplin’ Dan, Hog Monaghan, Slim, Sandy Harker, Millard who helped Johnny Marks with the remuda and a couple of strangers. He figured they’d be men to replace McPhee and Brandon.
But there were three strangers. Largo must have put on a new hand in an effort to make better time. Unless ... what was it that the telegraph operator had said Pecos Smith had told him? The man had said he didn’t think Nash would be coming back.
The Wells Fargo man lowered the field glasses. Why, he wondered, would Smith think that ...?
He let them settle at supper, seeing one stranger and Hog Monaghan get ready for night hawk duty and leave the camp. Then Nash mounted the black and rode slowly in, halting at the edge of the camp, letting his horse stomp its feet and draw the attention of the eating, gossiping men.
As they looked up, Nash slowly walked his mount into the circle of firelight.
“Howdy, gents. You’re sure flyin’, Largo. Been ridin’ like the wind to catch you up.”
Largo’s face remained blank but Nash was concentrating on Pecos Smith’s. The man looked momentarily surprised and then grinned as he stood up.
“Well, damn, Clay. We thought you’d gone and go
t yourself lost in the Cortes Breaks. Weren’t expectin’ you to show. Hey, Poison. A plate of grub for Clay here.”
Pecos strolled across to the fire where Poison Pete scowled and began ladling stew and potatoes onto a tin platter. Nash’s attention was diverted to Largo Dunn.
“We thought you’d run into trouble when you didn’t show. Put on a new man to replace you.”
“That mean I don’t have a job?”
“Hell, no. Set an’ eat. Extra man won’t go astray, considerin’ the time we’ve lost. You ... er ... catch up with McPhee?” All eyes were watching Nash.
“Yeah. We shot it out. I buried him back there.”
Largo pursed his lips and nodded in admiration. Pecos Smith, grinning as usual, brought over a platter. Nash took it with a nod of thanks, and began forking the stew. He began to chew and then stopped working his jaws.
Suddenly, he snapped his eyes towards Pecos as the man burst into uncontrollable laughing. Nash spat out the stew and ran for the water butt, gulping from the ladle.
“What’sa matter, Clay?” Pecos asked, with tears streaming down his face. “Stew too ... too hot for you? Got mebbe a mite too much chili sauce on it ...? Poison always was kinda liberal with it ...”
“Someone was, leastways,” Nash growled, his mouth still burning, despite the water. He glared at Pecos, then smiled crookedly. “Well, I guess I know I’m back with the right outfit, Pecos.”
The Poisoner brought him a fresh platter of stew and growled at Pecos. “Don’t go ruinin’ good grub with your stupid goddamn jokes or next time I’ll pour chili down your craw, bottle an’ all.” Nash was surprised at the cook’s vehemence and arched his eyebrows at Pecos who was squatting beside him.
“The Kid’s death got to him. Seems he looked on him like he was his own son. Been a sonuver to get along with lately.”
“Well, I guess it’s good that someone cared about what happened to the Kid.”
