Clay Nash 10

by Brett Waring

  Two hours later, Clay Nash returned from his ride to discover the carnage—and Mary’s mutilated body.

  Chapter Four

  Trail Without End

  Jim Hume’s Denver office was above the Wells Fargo Depot on Sherman Street, towards the rear of the building. It was paneled in dark wood, not for ornament so much as to make it tolerably sound-proof against the endless noises of the busy town. Consequently, Hume’s double-glazed windows were rarely opened and the room reeked of stale tobacco and the musty odor of leather-bound files and ledgers.

  Hume was not a big man, though he often gave the impression of size, simply because of his breadth of shoulder, powerful voice and strong personality. A man of great intelligence, he was the first man in the United States to use the new science of ballistics to aid in the tracking-down of criminals. A patient, dogged man, he didn’t care about fast results. He knew from long experience that the man who could take his time and check out every little lead thoroughly, was the man who eventually nailed his quarry.

  But, even Hume felt impatient to find the mad-dog killers who had slaughtered twelve people at the Reddings way-station; Mary and Jed Summers among them.

  He puffed silently on a cigar as he looked across his neat desk at the gaunt face of Clay Nash—whose eyes were like gun barrels. There was no softening of the hard lines around his mouth as he returned Hume’s stare.

  “I’m giving you this as an open assignment, Clay,” Jim Hume said quietly. “I’ll have other men working on it, too, because it’s too big for one man, but I know you’ll want to be involved because of Mary and Jed. So, if I have to pull some of the others off for other work from time to time, you’ll have to carry on alone.”

  “Suits me, Jim,” Nash assured him in clipped tones. “It’s the way I’d prefer it.”

  Hume nodded.

  “There’ve been rumors that the Fire Springs Borax Mines were bringing in their payroll by Wells Fargo—monthly, in cash—instead of doing it through the banks. Looks to me whoever was behind this figured that rumor to be true.”

  Nash’s mouth was grim. “How much did they get away with?”

  Hume sighed heavily. “Just under eight thousand dollars.”

  “And I wasn’t there,” Nash said flatly.

  Hume glanced at him sharply.

  “You’d’ve been dead, too, Clay.”

  “Mebbe. But I’d likely feel better than I do now.”

  “That’s stupid and you know it. It was pure luck you were up in the hills at the time. But even you couldn’t’ve done much, Clay. There must’ve been a sizeable bunch. Couldn’t you get any idea from the tracks?”

  Nash shook his head slowly.

  “They’d ridden back and forth—and then they drove the broncs out of the corrals, obliteratin’ any sign they might’ve left. Looked to me like they split up at the station. I could only guess at somewhere between two and ten—and I might still be way out.”

  Hume nodded and shuffled through some papers.

  “Seems to me we might have a starting point, anyway, Clay.”

  Nash tensed and sat forward a little in his chair, frowning.

  “Yeah,” Hume continued. “I’ve done a check through the way-station books. There were twelve bodies out at Reddings, counting the roustabouts, driver and shotgun guard. But there should’ve been fourteen.”

  Nash’s frown deepened.

  “How so?”

  Hume tapped the papers.

  “According to these there were two pre-booked passengers aiming to pick up the stage at the way-station. Names of Cutler and Allard, which may or may not be their right names.” He flicked his eyes to Nash’s face, saw the hard-eyed operative roving ahead of him with his thoughts. Hume smiled slowly as he nodded. “Yeah—could’ve been a couple of plants to allay the suspicions of the guard and driver. Then, when everyone’s relaxed around the meal table—wham! They hit ’em both while the rest of the crew move in from outside. Complete surprise.”

  “Always providin’ this Cutler and Allard turned up.”

  “Well, I reckon we got to work on the assumption that they did, Clay. If so, and their bodies ain’t around, it can only mean they were in on the deal.”

  “A startin’ point like you said,” Nash allowed quietly.

  They booked through the Fire Springs depot. Likely they chose that place because no one knew ’em, but maybe we’ll strike it lucky and find a clerk who can recollect what they looked like. Once we’ve got a description, we can start going through Wanted dodgers.”

  “Might not be wanted anywhere, Jim.”

  Hume shrugged.

  “Mebbe not, but this has the look of professionals—professional killers. So it’s a good chance that they will have a dodger or two out on ’em. If we can put a name—a right name—to their descriptions, we’re off along the trail, Clay.”

  Nash nodded and stood up.

  “That’s all we need. If I catch up to these—”

  Hume pinched down his eyes, and his lips parted as he started to say something but he changed his mind and knocked the edges of the papers together before placing them in his tray.

  “You take care, Clay,” he said finally.

  Nash turned at the door, his face granite hard.

  “Why?” he asked harshly. “I’ve only got one reason for living now, Jim: that’s to nail every one of those bastards.”

  He went out, gently closing the door after him.

  Hume pursed his lips and frowned. He didn’t like the way Clay Nash was shaping up.

  He looked on Nash as a good friend and he felt sorry for him, knowing what he must be going through. He knew that Nash was recklessly riding into trouble he might not be able to handle: and, what’s more, didn’t much care whether he rode out again or not. Nash’s world seemed very gray.

  Hume swore and savagely mashed out his cigar in the thick glass ashtray.

  The big cave was hushed as the outlaws gathered around the ironbound strongbox. Chip Benedict crouched in front of it, his lips moving as he counted out the currency bills and added them to the small stacks of gold and silver coins on the flat rock. The orange light from the single oil lantern reflected from the coins but no one looked at them: everyone’s eyes were on Benedict’s face as he swiftly riffled through the last bundle and suddenly flung it down, knocking over the neat stacks he had already piled up.

  “Judas priest! Eight thousand. That’s all.” He stared at the others, almost dazed by the knowledge that they hadn’t picked up the huge payroll they had expected. His mouth tightened and his face colored with rage as the others started their complaints. He stood up abruptly and the group backed off a little instinctively. His hands dropped to his gun butts as he raked them with his bleak gaze. “Don’t no one start in on me. You all heard, same as me, that there would be thirty thousand in that strongbox. Wells Fargo must’ve pulled a switch.”

  “Or it was never meant to be goin’ by stage in the first place,” Dan Barrett said. He met and held Benedict’s fiery gaze. “All the cussin’ in the world won’t change things now. We got eight thousand, and a few extra bucks from the passengers’ pockets. It’s better than nothin’, so let’s divvy-up.”

  “Wait a minute.” snapped Lance Short, his left arm tucked inside his shirt, a dirty bandage showing through the rent cloth at the shoulder. “It ain’t quite the same now. I mean, we was told we could expect a minimum of five thousand—each. I don’t feel like settlin’ for somethin’ less than fifteen-hundred. Now, Walt and me we went in agin the professionals—the guard and driver. So I reckon we should get two thousand apiece—and the rest split whatever way you want.”

  Benedict’s eyes narrowed as the others shouted abuse. The outlaw leader let them get it out of their systems then he moved slowly forward, pushing men aside, until he and Short faced each other across the dead campfire.

  “Lance, you ain’t really gonna push that, are you?” he asked in a deadly, quiet voice.

  Short was tense a
nd nervous but he nodded jerkily. “I am, Chip. I see Walt ain’t sayin’ anythin’ one way or another, but I reckon what I said is fair. We went in first; if we’d been downed, the rest of you would’ve been lookin’ up at wooden markers by now.”

  Benedict was already shaking his head before Short had finished speaking and suddenly the little gunman knew he was going to have to draw. He figured it might just as well be now—while Benedict was still shaking his head.

  Lance Short was fast: his right hand streaked for the gun butt and palmed it up easily and expertly, the crook of his thumb catching the hammer-spur and notching it back.

  But fast as he was, and even as his Colt snapped into line, Short’s eyes widened and his mouth started to form a shouted “No.” But it was too late: any cry he may have made was drowned in the thunderous crash of Benedict’s twin guns roaring simultaneously. Short’s small body was jerked into the air and flung violently against the wall of the cave. He flopped to the floor and his gun exploded uselessly, the bullet ricocheting somewhere in the darkness at the rear of the cave.

  Short’s heels stopped drumming on the sandstone and his glazed eyes stared sightlessly at the cave roof.

  Benedict held the smoking guns in his hands.

  “Anyone else want to complain about divvyin’-up by equal shares?”

  No one did.

  “We all get a few hundred extra now,” Dan Barrett said, squatting and beginning to sort out the money into five separate piles. He moved one pile a little as blood trickled from under Short’s body in a thin, sluggish stream.

  Clay Nash ran up the stairs leading to Jim Hume’s office and entered by the outside door. He hurried down the passage, rapped on the main door and went inside. Hume looked up irritably from behind his big desk, but his face beamed when he saw Nash.

  “Clay—hell, I didn’t expect you back yet a spell. You must’ve flown.”

  “Wore out three broncs,” Nash admitted, pushing his dust-spattered hat to the back of his head. He took a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his trail-stained jerkin and threw it onto the desk.

  “We got lucky,” he said. “One of the clerks in Fire Springs recollected those two hombres pre-bookin’ passages on the stage—to board at Reddings. He thought it was strange that two bookin’s like that should be made in the same day, but at separate times. That’s why he remembered. Anyways, from the description he gave me I’m pretty damn certain that one of ’em has to be Lance Short.”

  Hume jerked his head up.

  “Short? That little sidewinder?” Then he pursed his lips and nodded slowly, reading from the slip of paper. “By hell, you could be right, Clay. And he’s a killer. He could do it. Okay—we’ll check this description against one of the dodgers. What about the other feller? Any ideas on him?”

  Nash shook his head.

  “Stranger to me. I reckon his description’s pretty right because that other one’s a damn good word picture of Short.”

  “Who’s that varmint runnin’ with these days?”

  “Dunno. Last I heard he was one jump ahead of the law in Arizona. Phoenix, I think. You got the dodgers we can start lookin’ through, Jim?”

  Hume stood and led the way to the rear of the office behind a curtain covering a small alcove in which stood a wooden filing press. He opened the door and gestured to the stacks of yellowing Wanted posters.

  “We got a long job ahead of us. Clay. Some of ’em go back years and we might have to go through ’em all.” He paused. “If it’s there.”

  Nash sighed and tossed his hat onto a chair.

  “Sooner we start, sooner we’ll know,” he said as he grabbed an armful.

  “Wouldn’t you like to wash-up first? You look plumb tuckered. You should hit the hay for a spell. You’ll be better for it.”

  Clay paused and looked at Hume unsmilingly.

  “I’ll rest up when we know if that second description’s here or not. And then just long enough to get me ready to ride.”

  He dumped the dusty stack of dodgers on a corner of the desk and sat down as he began reading.

  Hume slowly shook his head and picked up a bundle.

  By three o’clock in the morning, the words on the faded dodgers were a blur and their eyes were sore and watery. Nash was working in a daze. Hume had tried to tell him that he might miss the right dodger—pushing himself when he was so tired—but Nash merely looked at him with his gun barrel eyes and Hume knew he wouldn’t miss a thing.

  It was half an hour later that Hume suddenly sat upright in his chair.

  “Walt Stern,” he rasped. “By God, Clay—it’s Walt Stern.”

  Nash scattered dodgers all over the floor in his hurry to look at the poster that Hume handed to him. There was not only a description, but a sketch. He read swiftly, comparing the dodger’s description to the one he had written down.

  “Yeah—it’s him, all right, Jim. Ever known him to run with Lance Short before?”

  Hume frowned.

  “Once. In Oregon. They robbed a bank together, killed two tellers and a customer. Might’ve killed the others in the bank, too, if the sheriff hadn’t come a-smokin’ with four deputies to back him.”

  “Right, then I guess he’s our man. I’ll start checkin’ to see if any of the State’s lawmen know his whereabouts.”

  “Clay, get yourself some rest first, for God’s sake. I’ll get someone onto checking that out. And I’ll get an artist to draw up some pictures on cards you can take with you when you go lookin’. Okay?”

  Nash nodded slowly and his shoulders slumped wearily. He handed Hume the dodger.

  “You’re right, Jim. I do need rest. But I’ll be back here after breakfast. If you don’t aim to be here, make sure someone else is—with the sketches. Okay?”

  Hume nodded and smiled faintly.

  “Go get some rest.”

  Nash nodded and went out, yawning.

  He had just taken the first steps along the trail that would have no end until every man involved in the way-station slaughter was dead—by his gun.

  Chapter Five

  First Blood

  Crissy Barrett threw her arms about her father’s neck and hugged him tightly, her small fist clutching the embroidered sewing-kit he had given her.

  “It’s nice, Poppa, it’s lovely. And it’s really mine?” she piped.

  He squeezed her frail body and laughed, happy to be back home.

  “Yeah, kitten, it’s really yours.” He turned to the smiling Eadie, fumbling in his jacket pocket with his free hand. “And I ain’t forgotten the loveliest gal in the Rockies, either.” He handed her the lace purse with the silver clasp.

  Eadie’s mouth dropped open as she took it gingerly.

  “Open it,” he ordered, grinning from ear to ear.

  Eadie Barrett unclipped the clasp and looked inside the purse. She gasped and drew out a folded twenty dollar bill.

  “Oh, Dan.” She was shaking with surprise and pleasure.

  “It’s yours, honey. To do what you like with. Buy yourself some fancy dress or a hair-do in Fire Springs, or anythin’ you like. It’s yours.”

  “But—but—Dan, what’s happened? I—can’t take this much money—”

  He folded her small hand over the bill and the purse.

  “Keep it and use it only on yourself,” he said gruffly.

  “Crissy’s got somethin’ and I’m okay. Besides, I walked into the bank in Sage Bend on the way home and slapped twelve hundred dollars down on Hopkins’ desk, asked him to get me the mortgage papers and then tore ’em up under his long nose.” He laughed. “You should’ve seen his face.”

  Eadie looked frightened. It was all too much for her. She couldn’t believe it. She was afraid she would waken in a moment and find it had all been a dream.

  “Where did the money come from, Dan?” she whispered, seeming almost afraid to hear the answer.

  He pulled her close.

  “Honey, you’ll never believe it. I had no trouble findin’
me a trail-herdin’ job in Fire Springs. We drove them ornery critters clear to the railhead in exactly two weeks, and then you know what I done?” He didn’t wait for her reply as he plowed straight on. “Well, then, Eadie, I took the biggest chance of my life. I looked at them wages the trail-boss had given me and I watched the rest of the crew whoopin’ it up around town, spending their dinero on likker and gals and cards and dice. I had me two beers and figured that was all I could afford to spend if I was gonna give the bank a down-payment to hold ’em off from foreclosin’. And then one of the fellers I’d been ridin’ drag with suddenly let out a holler you could hear clear to Santa Fe. He’d won himself five hundred bucks at faro. In less than an hour.”

  Eadie’s hand tightened convulsively on his arm.

  “Oh, Dan, you didn’t?”

  His grin widened as he nodded vigorously.

  “Yeah, Eadie, I did. I took every last cent of that trail pay and I went over to the tables and in a day-and-a-half, I ran it up into just under two thousand bucks. Well, sixteen hundred and some odd dollars, I think it worked out at.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. Can you believe it? Old Dan not havin’ to count to the very last cent what money he had in his pocket? But that’s how much I made, honey, and I done paid off the mortgage and this ranch is ours now—ours to build up or sell or—or even burn down if we’ve a mind. But we own it, honey. We got no more money worries. Ain’t it incredible?”

  Eadie nodded blankly. It really was incredible. She couldn’t quite grasp it. Then Crissy pushed the small sewing kit under her nose.

  “Lookit I got, Momma, I can sew my dolly’s clothes now.”

  “Oh, yeah—you go look in my saddlebags and you just might find yourself a new dolly—if you look real careful that is.”

  Dan Barrett laughed as he set her down and she ran squealing into the yard to where he had hung his saddle on the sawhorse near the front door.

  “Dan,” Eadie said with surprise, “I believe this thimble’s real silver.”

  Barrett turned slowly and looked at the glittering object.