Clay Nash 23

by Brett Waring

  Nash heard the thunderous roaring increasing in his ears. There was a red curtain, shot through with brilliant streaks of light dropping over his vision. His chest felt as if it were being crushed under a horse’s weight, pinning him to the ground. Water filled his mouth and nostrils and his arms flailed weakly.

  Through the pain and fighting to preserve his life, Nash realized he was dying. The cook had landed in a lucky position and he wasn’t going to let go until he had squeezed the life out of him ...

  Largo started forward when he saw that the fight was getting out of hand and even the cowboys had quietened.

  “Stop it, boss,” Hog Monaghan yelled. “There’s gonna be murder done, otherwise.”

  Pecos snatched at Largo’s arm, but the trail boss pulled free and plunged into the water. He grabbed the cook’s long, greasy hair and yanked his head back sharply. His clubbed fist drove down violently and hit the man between the eyes. The cook shuddered but he refused to release his grip.

  Largo swiftly drew his Colt and laid the barrel across the side of Pete’s head and he sprawled sideways into the shallows.

  While some of the men pulled him out onto the bank, Largo helped the groggy Nash to a sitting position.

  The Wells Fargo man sat in the muddy shallows, gagging and holding his throat. It was several minutes before he could speak. He crawled onto the bank and sat there, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on them, and his head hanging. The trail cook had been carried back to the camp and dumped in the back of the chuck wagon. Largo, Pecos and a couple of cowboys stayed with Nash.

  “You comin’ good?” Largo asked.

  Nash rubbed his bruised throat. “Madman,” he croaked.

  “Din’ realize he felt so strongly about the Kid. Mebbe he’ll be better now. Might’ve worked it out of his spleen.”

  “On me.”

  Pecos Smith squatted beside him with a puzzled frown.

  “What was that about you bein’ with Wells Fargo?”

  “Dunno. Some loco idea he got. Dunno how. ’Less it was me mentioning that Wells Fargo hold-up where the Mex got killed and I got myself into some trouble over it. Mebbe he got that all twisted up.”

  “Yeah, mebbe,” Largo said, not sounding convinced. “You’re sayin’ he was wrong, of course.”

  “Well, ’course I am,” grated Nash, wincing. “Hell, I’m just a drifter.”

  “A tough one,” Largo allowed. “Took a tough man to go after McPhee into the Cortes Breaks and come out alive.”

  “Well, I owed it to the Kid,” Nash said, then frowned. “You’d think Pete would’ve remembered that, wouldn’t you? That I went after McPhee because of him causin’ the stampede that killed the Kid.”

  “Mebbe he figured you went after him for some other reason,” Pecos suggested quietly.

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Hey, boss,” Hog Monaghan called from the chuck wagon. “The Poisoner’s comin’ round. You wanna sort of be on hand ...?”

  Largo nodded, glanced at Nash, then walked towards the main camp with the other cowboys. Pecos Smith stayed to help Nash onto his feet. The Wells Fargo man shook his hands off.

  “I’m all right,” he rasped, staggering a little.

  “Sure. For now. But wonder how the Poisoner’s gonna feel when he comes round properly? You could be in a heap of trouble, amigo.”

  As Nash stumbled his way back towards the main camp, he wondered if he were imagining there was more to Pecos’ warning than appeared on the surface ...

  By mid morning, Johnny Marks was barely holding his own in the surgery at Spanish Springs. Jim Hume paced the floor of the waiting room impatiently.

  He’d hoped to be able to question the killer right after he’d shot the man, but shock had set in and Marks had sunk into unconsciousness. The doctor had operated and removed the three bullets, and had told the Wells Fargo Chief of Detectives that he didn’t think the man would last more than a few hours.

  “I’ve got to question him, Doc,” Hume had said tightly.

  The medico had merely shrugged. “I’ve done all I can. You’ll have to wait and see if he regains consciousness. He may just slip away without coming to.”

  Hume had waited the long hours alone in the room, although Merida Gomez had twice come down and pleaded with him to go back to her house for a meal. But Hume stubbornly refused, wanting to be on hand the moment Johnny Marks opened his eyes. He stayed awake on the strong coffee that the doctor’s wife prepared for him.

  Then, around ten thirty in the morning, the weary medico looked in and, catching Hume’s eye, nodded slowly. “He’s conscious.”

  Hume pushed past the doctor and into the room where Marks lay in the narrow bed. As he heard Hume stomping in, his eyes fluttered open. He looked twenty years older—gaunt lines of pain having drawn down the corners of his mouth. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes deep-set in dark sockets. His breathing was ragged and gasping.

  “He hasn’t got long,” the doctor whispered as the detective sat beside the bed.

  “Papers on you say your name’s John Marks,” Hume said in his deep voice. “That right?”

  The wounded man didn’t move or speak at first then, just as Hume started to ask again, he nodded his head very slightly.

  “What you do? Besides try to shoot down women.”

  Again Marks was a long time in answering. “Wr ... wrangler,” he gasped.

  “Wrangler? With hosses?”

  Marks nodded. Then Hume stiffened.

  “By hell, you with Largo Dunn’s trail herd?”

  Again Marks nodded.

  “Uh huh. One of the hombres who held-up that stage and murdered Gomez. Right?”

  Marks gave no indication he had heard and Hume went on swiftly, afraid the man was slipping away.

  “You and your two pards joined the trail herd in Cougar Bluffs, right? Aimed to use it as cover to get away up to Freedom ... or wherever you wanted to go.” Hume paused. “What made you come back?”

  Marks coughed, and the doctor reached over Hume’s shoulder and wiped away the trickle of dark liquid that oozed from his mouth. He was fighting for breath and the medic shook his head dolefully. Hume gripped the man’s shoulder.

  “Marks. Why’d you come back here to kill the girl?”

  The dying man gargled. “Y-yeah. Kill ... kill gal ... I figured the ... the Mex might ... left copies of the ... papers. Had to make sure. Th ... they figured I was the ... the best one to ... come.”

  “Who?” Hume rasped. “Who figured it, Marks? Who were your pards?”

  The man said nothing for so long and his breathing became so quiet that Hume and the doctor thought the man was rapidly slipping into the coma that would precede death. Then Johnny Marks spoke, without opening his eyes, quite clearly—just as Hume was preparing to leave.

  “The Poisoner ... and Pecos. We pulled that stage job. Just to nail the Mex. But we got to keep the money, ’specially the double eagles from the strong box.”

  Hume and the doctor were surprised to see Marks’ lips move in a faint smile. The man coughed but the spasm swiftly passed and he continued, clearly, although his voice was obviously weakening.

  “Threw ... your man on that ...”

  “My man?” Hume asked. “Clay Nash? He’s been spotted?”

  “Hell ... we ... we suspected him right off. Good trail hand but somethin’ tough ... deadly about him. Got the look of a lawman more’n a ... gunfighter. Just guessed, but we played it safe an’ ... an’ gave him a bum steer so’s he’d go after McPhee. Tried to nail him in the foothills of the Cortes Breaks, but he was too fast for me. Back at camp, they figured I’d ... better … better make sure them papers we took off the Mex were the only ones. He ...he sent me back here to ... kill the gal to be ... sure she didn’t take up where her ol’ man left off ...”

  “Who sent you? Pecos? This Poisoner feller? Which one’s the leader? Marks?”

  The man went into a fit of coughing an
d his head rolled on the pillow, his body convulsing. The doctor hurried to him but there was nothing he could do. Marks was rapidly dying, the effort of talking having weakened him considerably.

  “Who?” Hume cried, leaning over the man. “Who sent you, damn it?”

  The man got out the name with his last, dying breath.

  “Largo.”

  Nine – Death in the Saddle

  Freedom was only a day’s drive away as the long line of steers ambled their way across plains that gradually became lush, emerald foothills. Beyond the range lay the market at Freedom and there was a taut excitement running through the men as they drew closer to trail’s end and the prospect of a high time.

  Largo Dunn had pushed man and beast hard to make up for time lost and he was once again almost on schedule. He would make his deadline and get the promised bonus—and that meant a few dollars extra in every man’s pay-packet.

  Since the fight with Nash, Poison Pete had been very quiet but less surly. Nash didn’t know what Largo Dunn had said to him but the trail boss had taken the cook out of camp and it was over an hour before they rode back. After that, Poison Pete’s mood changed. He still seemed grief-stricken over the Kid’s death, but he no longer griped so much. But he refused to be friendly towards Nash. The Wells Fargo man regarded Pete warily. The man had surprised quite a few cowhands with his brawling abilities and his apparent readiness to kill: several of the men had admitted their surprise to Nash.

  With some quiet questioning, Nash realized that no one in the camp had ever ridden with the Poisoner before.

  He suspected that the trail cook might well be one of the men he was looking for. Marks had been one, he was sure of that, but he’d thought that the man’s companions, if they were still with the herd, would have given themselves away a long time ago. However, he knew that once they reached Freedom they would probably cut out, join together again and quit.

  Nash wanted to be on hand to see it again. If it happened. So far they had been mighty sharp about keeping away from each other, so it could be they wouldn’t get together in Freedom. But he had to complete the trail drive and observe. And there might also be word from Hume waiting for him in town that would help identify the road agents ...

  There was a lot of animated conversation that night at supper as the men squatted around the camp and discussed the good time they planned to have in Freedom.

  “Hey, Clay, you ever been to Freedom before?” Dumplin’ Dan called across.

  “Never have,” Nash lied.

  “Well, man, you’re in for a treat. They got five whorehouses. Five. And some of the classiest gals this side of the wide Missouri. All kinds, too, some foreigners who can drive you out of your mind. Whooooeeeeee! I can hardly wait to hit that there town. I’m gonna dream about it all night long.”

  “You eat much more of that grub an’ your belly’ll be too damn big to let you get in the whorehouse door, Dumplin’,” quipped Slim and the others laughed. Such was their mood that it took very little to get a chorus of guffaws from almost any remark.

  Pecos Smith squatted beside Nash with a second mug of coffee. “Like a bunch of kids,” he said.

  “Figured you’d be showin’ some signs of excitement, Pecos. Good chance for you to cut loose with some of those crazy pranks of yours.”

  “Aw, I’ll leave my mark on this town, don’t you worry none about that, Clay. But I’m savin’ my energy till I get my pay. I don’t aim to burn it up in a burst of useless excitement tonight. We got a full day’s drive ahead of us yet. Gonna be kind of dangerous goin’ up an’ over them hills, too. Might not look anythin’ from here, but the trail narrows and we gotta drive the steers more or less Injun file till we get down into the pass. I’m turnin’ in early. You got any sense you’ll do the same an’ let these fools talk all night if they want. They’ll be just that much more tuckered when we hit Freedom.”

  Nash nodded, then finished eating, cleaned his platter and smoked a cigarette with his coffee, watching Poison Pete at work on his bench, cleaning pots. He noticed that Largo stayed close to the cook, as if to head off any more trouble. The Poisoner caught Clay’s eye—and there was a coldness on his face before he ducked and got on with his work.

  Nash somehow figured he hadn’t finished with Poison Pete. It seemed a good chance that the tough trail cook was one of the men he sought.

  He took Smith’s advice and turned in early ...

  Largo had the whole camp on the move by sunrise. The chuck wagon was loaded and lumbering on ahead before the sun rose over the hills. Then the herd got moving and Largo deployed his men, giving Nash a point position.

  By mid morning, he saw what Pecos had meant about the trail narrowing as it climbed into the range.

  Largo was ahead, after first letting the chuck wagon rumble up the narrow, twisting, climbing trail.

  The steers had to be hazed into groups of four or five abreast.

  As the trail climbed higher, it became even narrower and Clay’s black showed signs of irritation and skittishness. He’d had no trouble with the animal before—but then he’d not had to put it through that kind of chore previously, either.

  Fighting the horse took a lot of time and attention, and he didn’t much care for it, working so close to the edge of a sheer drop.

  The steers were bawling and rolling their eyes—requiring constant hazing to keep them on the move. Nash was hoarse from cursing his mount, wondering what in hell was wrong with it. Then, when it stepped off the edge with one hind leg and he almost lost balance, he reckoned that was enough.

  But there was little he could do, except maybe dismount and try to work the steers on foot, which wasn’t really practical. But the damn horse would get them both killed if he didn’t do something ...

  “Hey! Watch out.”

  He yelled wildly as Pecos Smith, working nearby, got his mount between the steers and the sheer wall rising on the far side, forcing them towards the edge of the trail.

  Suddenly, a steer cannoned into Clay’s mount, crushing his leg between its body and the horse. The black whinnied and reared as the horns raked across its belly. Nash jumped, landing on the backs of the nearest steers as his horse went over the edge, thrashing wildly until it struck the rugged slope twenty feet down and crashed to the bottom.

  The steers were bucking and bawling, terrified by Clay’s weight. He slithered between the bodies, the breath being crushed from him as he yelled to Pecos to throw him a rope.

  But the man didn’t seem to hear ...

  Nash almost went down and, choking in the dust, he felt his body being squeezed between the rough hides. A horn nudged him in the back and he threw himself forwards and up in panic, afraid his lungs would be pierced or his spine broken.

  He sprawled across the back of one beast, grabbed its horns as it tossed its head with a deafening bawl, then with a frantic, lunging, crawl, he bounded over the steers’ backs until he reached the inside wall. But there was no room for him to drop off. If he tried, he’d be crushed by the surging cattle.

  “Grab the rope, Clay.”

  Nash didn’t know who it was who yelled and he could barely see with the dust cloud choking him. But he felt the rope slap across his shoulders and his hands snatched at it frantically. He got a grip, and then he was being hauled back over the heaving cows. He saw the horseman who’d rescued him was Hog Monaghan.

  Nash stood on a bellowing steer’s back and leapt onto Hog’s horse, behind him. The cowboy crashed a way through the steers to a wider section of the trail where two other cowboys were already waiting.

  One of them was Dumplin’ Dan. The other was Pecos Smith.

  “I ought to throw you over the edge,” snapped Nash as he jumped down, shaken. “You loco damn polecat. You pushed my hoss over the edge and it damn near took me, too.”

  “Sorry, Clay. Didn’t see you with all that dust, I guess. I thought you was on ahead. A cow had been gored an’ the others …”

  “I ain’t interested,” Nas
h snapped. “But I aim to go look at my black.”

  “It’s dead, man.”

  “Yeah, likely. But somethin’ was making it act up and it was more than just working a high trail.”

  The others exchanged blank looks as Nash got another horse from the remuda and with Hog Monaghan rode to where his dead mount lay below the high trail.

  They dismounted and struggled to get the saddle and bedroll off the dead animal. The Wells Fargo man examined his rig carefully and he almost missed it when something jabbed his finger as he ran his hand along the inside edging of the saddle’s fender. Suddenly, he knew he’d found the answer.

  A small piece of wire had been jammed into a needle hole so that when the saddle moved the wire would jab into the horse—causing it to buck and plunge.

  “Hell, that’s kind of sneaky,” Hog Monaghan breathed. “See? It’s placed there in the fender so it wouldn’t jab the bronc until you started weaving back and forth in leather, workin’ the steers on that narrow trail. Then the whole damn rig had to move with your shiftin’ weight and your knees pressin’ agin the fender dug that wire in deep as it’d go.”

  Nash nodded, fingering the bloody piece of wire.

  “Hell, it ain’t no joke, that,” Monaghan said abruptly. “You could’ve gotten killed.”

  “Reckon that was the idea, Hog. Be obliged if you didn’t let on we’d found this piece of wire.”

  “What? Judas, you gotta find out who done it, Clay.”

  “I will. Just don’t say nothing right now. Savvy?”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “Heard you had a lucky escape this mornin’,” Dunn said as Nash ate the noon meal, seated on a deadfall a little aside from the others.

  The trail boss rested a muddied boot on the log beside the Wells Fargo operative as Nash forked up beans.

  “I was lucky, all right. Hoss acted up loco. First time I’d worked a high trail with him.”

  “Yeah,” Largo said slowly. “Some broncs are like that. Had me a palomino once, beautiful animal in every way, but put him on a rise more than ten feet high and he weren’t worth a hill of beans. Had to get rid of him. Threw me twice off hogbacks, but nothin’ like that mountain trail we crossed.”