Clay Nash 11

by Brett Waring

  For seven long years, Will Dodd had held a grudge against Wells Fargo. After he’d lost his home in a right-of-way dispute, he figured they owed him plenty. So when he heard that the company was about to transport a precious golden eagle worth a quarter-million dollars all the way to New Mexico, he made up his mind to steal it. It wasn’t just for the money, though the money would be sweet. He wanted to make Wells Fargo look foolish to the whole damn’ country.

  Besides, he suspected that Wells Fargo’s top operative, Clay Nash, would be involved somewhere along the line, and he had a powerful hate for Nash, too …

  So he assembled a bunch of merciless killers and went after his targets with single-minded determination … and from that day forward Wells Fargo’s Santa Fe run would be marked by blood and bodies!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  One – Gun Trap

  Two – The Governor’s Eagle

  Three – Wolf Pack

  Four – Decoy Run

  Five – Arrowhead Trail

  Six – Escape to the Wild Lands

  Seven – Wilderness Pursuit

  Eight – “Ride Him Down!”

  Nine – Guerrilla Warfare

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Series

  CLAY NASH 11

  THE SANTA FE RUN

  By Brett Waring

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Edition: August 2018

  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 ~*~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  One – Gun Trap

  The Wells Fargo depot at Morgan, New Mexico, was in total darkness.

  Most of the town was asleep, though there was a considerable racket coming from one of the saloons up on Main. The ruckus was caused by a bunch of trail-herders cutting-up rough with some of the locals. Leastways, that was how it seemed, but later, folk would realize that the locals were not truly Morgan folk at all: they were hardcases who had drifted in over the past couple of days, and they would drift out again when the events of the night were over.

  It seemed that their sole purpose had been to stir up trouble in the saloon at that particular hour and to keep the trail men busy—and the town’s night patrol of deputy marshals.

  They succeeded, it seemed, for the four town marshals on patrol all ran to the saloon to try to break up the brawl which was spilling out into the street. Saloon girls and their customers in upstairs rooms were leaning out of windows, hanging over balconies and yelling encouragement to add to the din.

  All the action was on Main: the side street where the depot was located was quiet and still and deeply shadowed by the buildings either side. It was a commercial street, with the Wells Fargo depot at the far end, away from busy traffic. It was also easier to manipulate the stages in the area, and there was room for a corral that could hold the relief team and sheds where coaches could be repaired. Linked to the depot was a blacksmith’s forge, a grain store, a saddler’s, and a couple of vacant lots.

  It was in one of these that something moved in deep shadow. It was only a slight movement, but it was enough to attract the attention of a dog that normally slept in the lot after scavenging among the town’s refuse and trash. It stopped, with hackles rising, teeth bared and a snarl starting deep in its throat. Then it padded forward warily, aggressively: something—or someone—was in or near its sleeping spot. Suddenly, there was a flashing movement, a dull crack, and the dog gave a yelp that was cut off swiftly as its neck snapped under the blow from the rifle butt.

  A man stepped out of the shadows and kicked the twitching carcass into the weeds. He was a big man, wearing a dark hat and checked shirt tucked into whipcord trousers. He wore two six-guns, strapped to his thighs. A light washed across his square face to show the silver fringe of several days’ growth of stubble, a large, hooked nose, and eyes shadowed by heavy brows. He stood gazing towards the depot for a few seconds then pulled up a kerchief over the lower half of his face.

  “Time,” he called quietly.

  There were stirrings around the lot and seven more shapes rose up out of the weeds and from behind piles of old crates and other garbage that had been dumped there. The men assembled around the big man and began covering their faces with bandannas. Big Will Dodd touched two men on the shoulders and pointed in the direction he wanted them to go. They moved off silently and swiftly, making for the entrance to the side street that led down the office side of the Wells Fargo depot. Two others made for the rear of the building, one for the corral area, and another for the workshops. All were to be checked before Will and his brother, Adam, made their move.

  Adam was tall and slim and seemed younger than the rest of the gang. He appeared nervous: opening and closing his hands around the shotgun he carried. Occasionally, he wiped his palms down the cowhide vest that covered a bright blue shirt. It was only his third raid with the outlaw bunch.

  “Reckon it’s safe, Will?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Ought to be. Night patrol’ll be tendin’ to that ruckus I arranged at the saloon, and Wells Fargo don’t normally leave guards sleepin’ beside their safe.” He turned to Adam with a smile and nudged him gently in the ribs.

  “I been a pain in Wells Fargo’s side for years, Adam, but after tonight Mr. Jim Hume’ll throw a fit every time he hears the name Dodd.” He chuckled out loud. “Yessir! They ain’t never goin’ to forget they drove us off our pappy’s land with their goddamn right-of-way.”

  He nudged Adam again and the youth nodded. But he was plainly nervous and apprehensive.

  “Will—it’s a big payroll. Won’t they be takin’ extra precautions? Maybe have a half-dozen hombres waitin’ inside, guardin’ it with guns?”

  “Ain’t their way, kid. Wells Fargo like to play things nice and easy. But you can bet when they seem to be takin’ less precautions than usual that that’s the time they’re carryin’ somethin’ really valuable. It’s their way, and it fools most folk, but not me. I got to know ’em over the years and I can think right along with Jim Hume and that top agent of his, Clay Nash. ’Fact, I can outsmart ’em. Like tonight.” He waved as his men began signaling that all was clear. Dodd stooped and picked up his canvas pack that held his explosives and detonators. “Time to go, kid. Now, quit worryin’. I been watchin’ for two days. I counted everyone who’s gone in, and seen ’em all come out again. It’s clear, kid. The payroll’s settin’ there, just waitin’ for us to go get it. And that’s exactly what we’re gonna do. Come on.”

  Will padded out of the lot, rifle in one hand, explosives in the other. Adam hesitated and then moved after him. They crossed the street swiftly and went onto the porch of the depot. The ruckus from the saloon was dying a little now and Will set down his bag, took out a short iron jemmy bar. In a few seconds, he had prised the heavy padlock and hasp out of the wood. Then he pushed the chisel-edge of the bar between the door and the jamb and levered again, at latch level.

  The door was heavy timber and the latch was strong. It resisted his efforts and Dodd cursed, straining, while Adam stood at the edge of the porch, holding his shotgun in sweating hands. There was a loud snap
and a splintering sound, then the door swung inwards. Adam twitched as Will surged inside, scooping up the bag of explosives as he went.

  Adam took a final look around the street, afraid the noise might have disturbed someone. Satisfied, he turned and hurried into the depot.

  “Will?” he called.

  “Towards the back, left hand side,” his brother called. “Prop the door closed and I’ll get some light in here.”

  Adam closed the door and propped a straight-backed chair under a strut above the broken latch. Will fired up his bull’s-eye lantern and Adam saw the big, green-painted door of the Wells Fargo safe with the company’s name emblazoned on the front in yellow paint, It looked a massive iron door and he wondered how much dynamite it would take to blow it off its hinges.

  Will took out cold chisel and lead-headed hammer. He was about to start chiseling a trough to take the sticks of dynamite between the door edge and the safe frame, when he froze.

  There was a yell outside, swiftly followed by a gunshot. Then a lot of gunshots. Rapid, concentrated, mingling with a man’s scream and the sound of shattering glass.

  “Gun trap,” Will yelled, dropping the chisel and hammer and snatching up his rifle. “Get out, kid.”

  Adam, shaking and scared, and hearing bullets thudding into the walls of the depot, leapt up and ran for the front door, crashing into a chair and sprawling.

  “Not that way,” Will roared, groping for some dynamite in his bag.

  But Adam was in a panic. He made small, mewling sounds as he frantically kicked at the entangling chair, then lurched to his feet and stumbled towards the front door.

  “No,” Will roared.

  Adam kicked the chair away and the door was wrenched open as he staggered outside, the shotgun braced into his hip. He triggered one barrel and there was a hard volley of answering rifle fire. Will Dodd watched in horror as his brother’s slim body jerked and twitched as bullets thudded into it. The youth was slammed back into the depot and splinters flew all around him from the door and the frame and the floorboards. Adam dropped and died in agony.

  Will stood staring in horror at the mangled body of his young brother.

  “Will Dodd!” a voice called from the night outside. “Give up, or you’ll be killed.”

  “Nash!” Will Dodd roared suddenly. “Clay Nash, you murderin’ bastard. You killed my brother.”

  “Give up, Will!” Nash called. “We got you cold-decked.”

  “Not yet you ain’t,” Dodd gritted as he picked up a stick of dynamite. He could hear the sounds of gunfire as his men continued to fight back. There was the sound of a galloping horse, the cursing of men and the thunder of a shotgun. Above the sounds, he heard Adam’s death rattles.

  His big hands shook as he slit the dynamite stick, stuffed a fuse into a detonator and crimped it between his teeth with a sure, quick motion. He pushed the detonator into the dynamite, then threw himself flat as a volley of lead spattered through the depot, smashing lamps, ripping up the desk, ricocheting from the safe door beside him, and leaving silver-gray streaks across the green paint.

  He made a second stick ready, hacked off the fuse to the length he required and thrust one into the flame of the bull’s-eye lantern. It spluttered and Will moved until he was in line with the open door, then hurled one of the sticks into the darkness.

  Before it landed, he was swinging back and thrusting the fuse of the second stick into the lantern’s flame. This time he ran towards the rear of the building and hurled the stick at the back door, holding it in his hand until the fuse had burnt down to the last inch.

  Dodd threw himself headlong across the depot office and crouched beside the heavy safe.

  There were two ear-shattering explosions but they came so close together that they were almost one. The dynamite in the street exploded a fraction of a second before the one at the depot’s rear door. Earth erupted from the street and windows in nearby buildings shattered, the sounds lost in the thunder of the detonation.

  The charge at the rear door blew out half the wall, and the awning over the rear porch sagged down at one side. The door blew out in several sections and a fire started among the weeds in the empty lot.

  Grasping his rifle, Will plunged through the smoke and debris and leapt into the yard. He saw a man, dazed and disoriented, stagger away from the corral area. Dodd shot him, not caring whether it was one of Nash’s men or one of his own. He aimed to shoot at anything that moved.

  He ran towards the corrals hearing the squeals of frightened horses through the gigantic ringing in his head. Men stumbled out of the shadows and guns hammered as Dodd weaved and ducked and fired as fast as he could work the Winchester’s trigger and lever. When the gun was empty he grabbed the end of the hot barrel and swung it murderously as a man leapt at him from behind some stacked crates. The man grunted as the heavy, brass butt smashed into his face.

  Dodd dropped the rifle, whipped out a six-gun and turned to blast two shots at the sound of running boots behind him. There was complete chaos in the depot as the rear of the building caught fire and men dashed around to get water. Others chased those of Will’s men who had survived the gun trap.

  Will emptied his first six-gun, holstered it and drew his second as he dived under the bottom corral pole, skidded in the dust, rolled and blasted at a man coming in with a blazing gun. He saw the man spin away, clawing at his arm and going down to one knee. Dodd fired at him again, bounced to his feet and ran in among the frightened, milling horses. He didn’t try to mount one: he had his getaway horse stashed nearby but he aimed to use the corralled animals to help him escape. He kicked down one of the fence rails then fired two swift shots into the air, close to the head of a wild-eyed horse. The animal reared, pawing the air as Dodd flung himself backwards, then it lunged forward with a wild whickering. The others followed, leaping the sagging rail and stampeding into the depot yard in a close-packed body.

  Posse men scattered for their lives as the animals ran through them. The fire was spreading to the depot roof and throwing a huge, flickering, ruddy light over the area. Will ducked through the corral rails on the side opposite the depot, then ran to the area where he had left a second getaway mount.

  He was a man who always covered his exits.

  Dodd’s mouth was tight and his face hard as he leapt on the waiting black. He snatched up the reins of a second mount, which had been left for Adam, figuring he might need to change if the pursuit got too hot. Then he wheeled and rode away from Morgan, crashing through the brush at the edge of town and swiftly being swallowed by the darkness.

  At the depot, a bucket brigade had already formed and water was being thrown on the fire. The roof was the main target and shingles flew into the air as the flames exploded the resin in their cells and fibers. Two men climbed onto the roof and buckets were passed up the short ladder where another man handed them on. The fire was soon under control and the reek of charred wood and smoke filled the night. The weary, soaked men filed around to the front of the depot building and stared at the gaping hole in the street left by Will Dodd’s first stick of dynamite.

  The town marshal walked towards a group of men, singling out the tallest, a hombre with light brown hair, hawk-like face and clear blue eyes. His wide mouth looked as if it could be warm and good-humored, but it was grim as he thanked the men for taking part in the ambush.

  There were bodies and wounded men strewn around the depot area being attended by the town doctor.

  “Clay,” the marshal said to the tall man, “I reckon we done a damn good night’s work.”

  “Tolerable, Harve,” answered Clay Nash, Wells Fargo’s top undercover agent.

  “Hell, man, we wiped out the Dodd gang,” the marshal said.

  “We didn’t get Will.”

  “No one’s fault, that. Not when he started tossin’ dynamite around.”

  Nash smiled wryly: “I reckon Jim Hume won’t look on that as much of an excuse.”

  “I’ll soon tell him what
a damn fine showin’ you put up if he gives you any trouble, Clay. I mean it. It was the best organized gun trap I’ve ever seen. Hell, Dodd figured he was so smart, hangin’ round town for a couple days, thinkin’ he wouldn’t be recognized, countin’ heads in and out of the depot.” The marshal chuckled. “Damn fool never reckoned on you havin’ your men planted outside the office. No, Clay, any way you look at it, you done good and I’ll back you if anyone wants to give you a hard time about it.”

  “Thanks, Harve.” He raised his voice. “And thanks to you all for helpin’ on the deal. Wells Fargo won’t forget it and I’ll see any rewards on the outlaws we downed are sent back to you.”

  The group murmured approval: the prospect of such easy money appealed to them.

  “Harve, I’ll want a posse for daylight. I reckon Will Dodd’ll have his tracks pretty well covered but I have to look before I head back to Santa Fe. Can you get some men together? Say, ten?”

  “I’ll fix it, Clay.” The marshal looked around at the begrimed townsmen. “Now we better all get us some sleep. Some of us have got some hard ridin’ to do come sunup.”

  Clay Nash mopped his sweating face with his kerchief and hefted a rifle, on the side of which was engraved: To Clay Nash, For Services Rendered, From A Grateful Wells Fargo & Co. He ordered two of the depot’s employees to guard the wrecked depot office until daylight, then, wearily, moved back towards Main, thinking of the soft bed that awaited him in the hotel.

  He didn’t know that it would be the last good night’s sleep he would get for a long, long time.

  Two – The Governor’s Eagle

  In the year 1884, Wells Fargo and Company’s records showed that, during the previous fourteen years, money stolen from stagecoaches, trains, depots and other company facilities amounted to $415,312.55c.

  Wells Fargo promptly made these sums good to their customers and it was because of this iron-bound guarantee of restitution that the company prospered so well. But, besides this, rewards were paid to bounty hunters, lawmen, and company detectives and operatives; there were also costs of prosecutions as well as salaries for guards, drivers and special officers.