by Brett Waring
As the body kicked in its death throes, Dodd turned to face the room, guns ready to shoot again. But there was no more aggression. The men stared at the bodies and at blood patches on the woodwork. Dodd raked his eyes around the room then holstered one gun while he began to reload the other. Finally, he set his gaze on the remainder of Sling Monroe’s bunch, five bleak-eyed men, all professional killers without loyalty, and all willing to side with anyone paying top dollar.
“I need a bunch of hard hombres,” Dodd said quietly. “You know why.” He looked around the room again. “Now, I don’t much care if any of you jaspers got notions about makin’ your own try for this statue; you’re welcome to see what you can do. But I figure you won’t have much chance. I know Wells Fargo. I know the way Hume and Nash think, so I can outsmart ’em. But I must have a few facts first. So, I’ll pay a hundred bucks in gold to the man who brings me the right info about the special stage and the route it’s takin’. If I get a load of hogwash from anyone, the payoff’s gonna be in lead. Now—you trash who rode with Sling: you wanna side me in this or not? There’ll be plenty of takers if you ain’t interested.”
They didn’t hesitate; they knew Dodd’s reputation, and had seen his skill with guns. They moved forward and ranged themselves alongside him. Griffin, Moran, Hackleback, Dixie and Talman.
The six of them made a forbidding and deadly bunch as the other owlhoots and whores stared at them through the haze. Most of the men there never doubted for a moment that Will Dodd and his new wolf pack would grab that golden statue—and likely nail Clay Nash at the same time.
Dodd sure never doubted it, anyway.
It was the first time that Clay Nash had seen Alamogordo in the guise of a boom town. Last time he had been there, the place had been a tolerably quiet cattle town with most folk moving about slowly, depressed because the town had not been provided with a railroad spur and wasn’t serviced by Wells Fargo stages. But the general superintendent of the company had seen some potential in operating the stage run and against the opposition of his shareholders had started the service.
Even before the big gold strike, his decision had been vindicated: folk from many miles around the Alamogordo district made use of the stage and since the strike it was going to be a very profitable time for Wells Fargo.
Alamogordo had doubled in area it seemed to Nash as he hefted his war bag and strolled through the bustling streets. Rough shacks, tents, canvas-walled saloons and eateries, so-called hotels and ‘rooming houses’ had sprung up everywhere. A man could buy bunk-space in a tent—if he were lucky—for three dollars a night. A decent meal cost almost as much and if a man were silly enough to arrive in town without mining tools then he had to expect to pay up to twenty times the normal price for them.
Rifles and ammunition were also expensive but six-guns seemed to range from extra cheap to reasonable in price. Nash, on examining some of the weapons closely, soon saw why: they were unknown brands, turned out by shoestring ‘armories’ that were nothing more than sheds. He saw cracks in the forging, firing pins that were already burred, and wooden foresights painted silver to look like metal. The Colts and Remingtons and Smith-and-Wessons were, of course, highly priced.
Nash shook his head as he walked out of the store. These were the men who would make the real money: the storekeepers, the saloon men, the gamblers and the strings of painted whores. They supplied the ‘necessities’ and the hard-working men who came to make their fortunes, usually lost it to the leeches who promoted them. Some prospectors, of course, struck it really rich and it was the news of these strikes that kept the other hopefuls digging and panning.
The Wells Fargo man saw the brick-fronted Bank of New Mexico across the churned-up plaza and weaved his way between the wagons and horsemen who crowded into the area. He had let his hair grow and also his moustache and sideburns. Instead of his usual range clothes, Nash was dressed in claw hammer coat, striped trousers tucked into the tops of plain, highly-polished leather half boots, and a white shirt with a black string tie. He wore his usual six-gun and carried a standard rifle. His hat, instead of being the beaten-up affair that he favored, was a flat-crowned, fawn-colored Stetson with plaited tan leather band that had a single silver concha in the shape of a longhorn steer’s head at the front. He didn’t resemble the legendary Clay Nash and it would take more than a second glance for an outlaw to pick him as the top Wells Fargo operative.
Just the same, a man like Will Dodd, who knew Nash well, wouldn’t be fooled for more than a few seconds.
Nash went into the bank and was immediately stopped by two men armed with shotguns.
“Just hold up a moment, sir,” one man said, his tone polite, but his eyes hard and deadly. “Could you identify yourself?”
Nash noticed the shotgun’s hammers were cocked.
“I could. And, I guess by the looks of those guns, I’d better. Now don’t get trigger-happy, gents, but I’m goin’ to reach inside my jacket for my billfold. Okay?”
The guards said nothing but there was a shade more alertness in their cold eyes as Nash took out a tan leather wallet, opened it, and took out a printed card. He held it up for the guards to see:
NATHAN CLAY—CATTLE AGENT
“Mr. Stewart’s expectin’ me,” Nash added, and one of the guards consulted a list he had hanging on the post and nodded slowly.
“This way, Mr. Clay,” he said and Nash followed him through to the rear of the bank to the president’s office.
He went in through a glass door bearing the name: ‘ Stewart’.
Inside, a gray-haired man, nervous-looking but well-fed and neatly dressed in a gray suit, came around the desk. His right hand thrust out and Nash gripped with him briefly, setting down his war bag and rifle.
“Glad you got here, Clay. I’ve been sweating off pounds each day with that damn eagle settin’ in the vaults. We’ve made a couple of decoy runs, of course, but I won’t be happy till the real thing’s on its way. I’ve arranged with Wells Fargo for the stage to leave in the morning with it, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure, Lin. Sooner I get it to Santa Fe, the happier I’ll be, too. You’ve got a special valise, I believe?”
Stewart nodded and went to a cupboard. He brought out a scuffed and battered leather valise with faded initials—N.C.—burned into the leather. There was a brass lock that had been mangled around the key hole and looked as though it wouldn’t work in a hundred years. The handle had been repaired with leather thonging of a different color to the rest of the valise. There were expanding compartments and one was worn through on a corner.
“Looks mighty old and well-used,” Stewart said. “But that center compartment’s lined with sheet metal and is padded to take the eagle so it won’t move around. There’s an internal lock on that compartment and this outside one, though it looks chewed-up, will hold against a jemmy when you use the key I’ll give you. There are papers in the outer two compartments that represent bills of sale for cattle you’ve supposedly bought around the State and a little money, also a bank draft book and a registry of brands, some letters between you and meat-packing houses back east and railroads and so on. You’ve plenty of authentic identification should you need it. Oh, and there’s also a special pocket for a twin-barreled Remington Derringer which can be reached through the slit in the bottom of this outside compartment. Might come in handy.”
Nash examined the satchel and nodded in approval. Jim Hume and the banker had done a fine job.
“Well, guess all that remains now is for me to take a look at the statue,” he said.
Stewart nodded and, carrying the satchel, Nash followed him through a door that led to the bank’s vault area. They walked inside past more hard-eyed guards armed with shotguns and went to a private section in a rear corner. The banker used a set of keys on three different locks in a safe built into the back of the vault, knelt and lifted out a wooden box which he set on a small table. Then he lifted the lid and the four sides folded down and Nash wh
istled softly as he gazed at the golden eagle destined for the State governor.
It stood about nine inches high and every detail that Nash could recall having seen on a real bird seemed to have been captured in gold by the sculptor. Not only were there individual feathers, but each feather seemed to have its full complement of lines and even the tips around the breast area had a ‘fluffy’, paler look. The eyes had iris and pupil, the beak seemed parted just slightly so that the rough sides of the small tongue just showed. There were individual scales on the feet and the claws, wrapped around a golden bough that showed beetle tracks in the metallic ‘bark’, seemed wicked enough and sharp enough to rip the living heart out of a jackrabbit. Just beneath the breast was a beautifully emblazoned shield, the ‘ribbons’ seeming so real that Nash almost expected them to drift in the air movement as he turned the statue in his hands. It was engraved: To Our Beloved Governor, From The Grateful Folk Of Alamogordo, New Mexico, 1884.
“Wonderful piece of work, eh?” Stewart said, taking the statue from Nash and setting it back on its base in the specially constructed box. He folded up the hinged sides and slipped the lid on again, then returned the whole thing to the safe. He seemed relieved and actually wiped sweat from his face as he turned to face Nash again. “You can see why it’s regarded as a work of art.”
“Sure can. Must’ve taken a lot of time to do.”
“Yes, indeed. Now you’ll pick that up just before the stage is due to leave and you’ll make a ‘depot-jump’ as it pulls out, all right?”
Nash nodded. A ‘depot-jump’ was equivalent to what old windjammer sailors called a ‘pierhead jump’—which meant a man boarded a ship at the very last moment, just as it was pulling out.
“What about other passengers?” Nash asked.
“Keeping them to a minimum, I believe. They’ve been checked and re-checked by Hume and the local Fargo agent—I understand you’re not to have any contact with him while you’re here?”
Nash nodded: “Jim figured it’d be best if I just turned up in the role of Nathan Clay, cattle buyer. Comin’ to see the banker is somethin’ a real cattle agent would do to get his letters of credit and drafts and so on, but the only contact he’d be likely to have with Wells Fargo would be when he books his ticket. That’s why all the instructions were passed along to you.”
“Yes, well I think I’ve told you everything, Clay. I’ll be damn glad to get the eagle off my hands and I sure don’t envy you the job of getting it safely to Santa Fe.”
“What about this decoy stage?”
“It leaves a couple of hours ahead of yours, taking the route out through Peckham and Bowie before swinging back onto the Santa Fe trail. Your stage takes an even longer route, I understand: servicing the small hamlets in the Arrowhead Hills. Hume figured it’d look better if you took a stage that didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to get to Santa Fe. But, actually, it’ll skirt the hills and by-pass the settlements so it’ll arrive in Santa Fe three days ahead of schedule—just in case someone was going to make their try from that end.”
Nash pushed his hat to the back of his head as they walked out of the vault.
“Well, Jim seems to’ve taken care of most everything. Guess the rest of it is up to me.”
“It sure is and you’re welcome to it.”
Nash grunted as they went back to Stewart’s office.
Four – Decoy Run
Nash hoped he was behaving like a cattle agent. After leaving the bank with the battered satchel under his arm, he booked a reserved room at the hotel under the name of Nathan Clay, took a bath, then went into town for a spell.
He had a meal and then a few drinks in the saloon and allowed himself to be talked into dallying a spell with one of the whores, leaving her a generous tip. After a couple more drinks and watching a poker game, Nash retired to his room.
He sat at the small table with the lamp turned low and studied a map of the Santa Fe run. He marked out the places that he figured would be the most likely for bandits to try something, checked the timetable pinned to the map and written in Jim Hume’s cramped scrawl, and figured that there were maybe five major danger spots along the trail.
By the time he reached Santa Fe, he reckoned he would have sweated off maybe twenty pounds.
He had had easier jobs.
Will Dodd sent Hank Griffin into Alamogordo to find out what he could about the stages. It wasn’t difficult. Timetables were pinned up outside the depot offices. Griffin tore down one of them then did the rounds of the bars and the brothels, probing, asking straight out, pouring drinks into Wells Fargo guards and drivers, relief agents and teamsters. He filed away all the information that each gave him then went down to the depot and sat in the waiting room, smoking and flicking through an old Sears, Roebuck Mail Order Catalogue, apparently killing a little time.
But what Griffin was really doing was watching the folk who came to book passages on the stages out of Alamogordo. In the course of a half-day there in the waiting room, he noticed it was only on one particular run where the prospective passengers were questioned in more detail than usual.
It was the Santa Fe run that was due to go out through the Peckham and Bowie route.
On other runs, folk could come up and pay their ticket money, give their names, and that was it, once they were handed a timetable and told what time to be at the depot for departure. But the Santa Fe run, via Peckham and Bowie, seemed to bring the booking clerks to full attention.
“You sure you want to go out through Peckham and Bowie?” was the first question invariably asked. “I mean, we got more direct routes to Santa Fe ...?”
Sometimes the person would change, glad to be able to make a faster journey, for the jolting stagecoaches were not the most comfortable mode of transport in the world by a long shot. In which case, of course, the clerk merely moved their name to the other stage and that was the end of it.
But, should the passenger insist on having the coach that took them through Peckham and Bowie, then the questioning began in earnest.
“Pretty rough trail,” the clerk would say. “Wouldn’t make that run myself unless I absolutely had to. Guess you got a good reason for it, though?”
His querying tone would usually bring forth the required answer and Griffin was quick to note that the man wrote this reason down on a small pad just below the counter.
The reasons passengers gave were many and varied. Some had relatives in the two towns; a cowboy was wanting to drop off halfway between Alamogordo and Peckham where he would be picked up by a buckboard from a ranch where he was going to work. Griffin knew that ranch would be checked out and the cowboy’s story, too. When the passengers had been allowed to escape from the clerk’s inquisition, the man handed his notepad to a messenger who took it to the telegraph section in the rear of the depot for the Morse key to tap out the queries.
It was pretty obvious to Hank Griffin that the Santa Fe run via Peckham and Bowie was no ordinary stage service, though, on the surface it appeared to be. There were no extra guards, he was able to find out, but the express box was bolted to the floor between the passengers’ feet and there were three heavy brass padlocks on the iron-bound lid. This was not too unusual in itself for it was a method Wells Fargo had adopted long since whenever they shipped valuables consistently on a run that could well be plagued by road agents. It prevented the bandits from riding off with the express box to open at their leisure. Sometimes the delay of having to open it on the spot allowed lawmen or following guards time to get to the scene and maybe foil the hold-up attempt. But, usually, there were only two padlocks on the box, even for shipments of gold. The third one meant that something special was going to be in that particular express box on this run and Griffin smiled crookedly to himself as he set down the mail order catalogue and strolled out of the waiting room.
He knew damn well what it was going to be.
Dodd’s hideout was in the back of a canyon high in the desolate hills to the north of Alamogordo. T
he big outlaw himself was taking a turn at guard duty when he spotted the rider coming through the narrow pass that would eventually bring him to the trail that led into the canyon.
Will Dodd levered a shell into the breech of the Winchester and crouched among the rocks until he was certain of the man’s identity. It was Hank Griffin and by the looks of his horse he had ridden hard from Alamogordo. Which likely meant he had some worthwhile information.
The outlaw leader stood and waved Griffin down. The man hauled rein, a hand instinctively dropping towards his gun butt. Then he waved back and eased his dripping horse to a halt.
“I got it, Will,” he panted, tapping a shirt pocket, “I got it nailed right down. But we’re gonna have to move our tails. It’s due to pull out tomorrow before noon.”
“Good work, Hank. Come on back to the cave and let’s get down to details.”
In the big cave part way up the slope, the other outlaws stirred from their various lounging positions and walked across to hunker around the coffee pot while Dodd studied the paper that Griffin handed him.
“That’s the passenger list. It’s a full coach so there won’t be any last minute changes. Dunno if you recognize any names.” Dodd studied the list carefully.
“Two women, five men. The cowboy’s s’posed to drop off at High Hat Rock, so that’ll be four men and two women at least as far as Peckham. One of the women leaves there and there’s a pick-up: another man, name of Evans. Which don’t mean one helluva lot. Could be anyone, mebbe even Nash himself.”
“Aw, Hume might keep Nash right away from this deal, Will,” Hackleback said. He was an average-looking man with a pleasant face, though his eyes were mean and close-set. His mouth seemed to have a permanent half-smile on it and this was the disconcerting and misleading characteristic which had caused many a man to die in the past. “He’s got plenty of other professional guards for this kinda thing. He’ll likely keep Nash in reserve: he’s s’posed to be a detective, not a guard.”