by Brett Waring
Cassidy shrugged.
“Okay. Muchas gracias, Dan. And you rest easy. I’ll nail this Nash. But why move out? I can wait for him to show up in Sage Bend and nail him there. No one need know there was ever any connection with you. Once he’s laid away, you can just carry on.”
Barrett looked at him sharply, pursing his lips. It was very tempting.
“I’ve put the place on the market.”
“Then just leave it as it is. I’m workin’ for the land agent, to push them homesteaders out up-valley. I’ll hang around, a week or so longer. Nash might never show, but if he does, I’ll get him, and you got no worries.”
Barrett was trying to make his decision.
“By hell, if I could just stay on—be a damn sight easier—”
“Sure it would.”
“Are you two comin’?”
They looked up and saw Eadie on the stoop, calling impatiently. Barrett nodded and waved and they started towards the house.
“By hell, I might just do that, Kid. Say, what’s wrong?” He frowned as he saw Cassidy’s tight face.
“Was just thinkin’. Wind’s blowin’ harder than it was a few minutes ago. We heard your wife call okay.”
Barrett looked sharply towards the house but the doorway was empty. He increased his pace, a hand thoughtfully scrubbing his jaw, wondering just how much Eadie knew—
Chapter Eight
Gunfighter
Nash looked up from the file he was reading in Hume’s office and there was a sign of excitement on his hard, gaunt face.
“This Dan Barrett sounds like a possibility, Jim. He was in the same cell as Benedict, was on the road gang with him—and he was in for killin’ a man.”
“Yeah—but you can see by the short sentence that the jury didn’t figure it for cold-blooded murder. His plea was self-defense but, while they didn’t quite go along with it. It seems pretty likely it was just a square-off. Only, instead of it bein’ settled on the first couple of shots, Barrett chased his man through the town until he cornered him and gunned him down.”
“Which could take a mite of doin’. It’s a hard hombre who’ll do a thing like that. Hard—and cold.”
“Maybe not so much cold as hot-headed, Clay.”
Nash slapped the file with the back of his hand. “All I’m sayin’ is he’s a possibility.”
“Read on. There’s a notation at the bottom on the last page. Barrett’s married now; got a child. Seems all settled.”
“A married man’s likely to have more debts than a single feller, Jim. Nope. I’ll check him out.” He turned to the last page. “See he’s livin’ at a place called Sage Bend. Know it?”
“Looked it up. It’s nigh on eighty miles from the Reddings area.”
Nash pursed his lips and idly flicked the pages. Suddenly, he stopped and read swiftly.
“That’s as maybe. But, look here, Jim. Dan Barrett did a stint as lumberjack in the Rockies behind Reddings and he once worked in the borax mines at Fire Springs. Hell, he’s been all round that neck of the woods.”
“Yeah, well, I agree, he’s worth checkin’ out, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much, Clay. Two more of Benedict’s cellmates are still serving time; another’s dead; yet another’s out on the Barbary Coast somewhere—but it’s pretty vague. He could be around, or could’ve been at the time of the Reddings deal.”
“I’ll check,” Nash said, taking the papers. “And I’ll start checkin’ the towns closer in to Reddings first. If I can’t come up with anythin’ worthwhile, I’ll move out as far as Sage Bend and look up this Dan Barrett. He stood and Hume glanced at him.
“When’re you goin’?”
“Right now. I’ve had me a good sleep and a good breakfast. I’ve got two fast mounts waitin’—one to be used for totin’ my packs.”
“You’d better take some warm clothes. Stage drivers are already havin’ to find lower trails over the mountains. Been an early blizzard or two way up. And Moon Pass was snowed-in for half a day.”
Nash whistled softly.
“Gonna be a bitch of a winter, then, seems like.” Hume nodded and thrust out his hand. They shook briefly.
“Try to get back before it sets in, Clay, but try to get back, anyway.”
Nash smiled faintly.
“I’ll be back, Jim. Dunno when, but you can count on it.”
“Glad to hear it. For a spell there, I figured you didn’t much care whether you came out alive or not.”
“Didn’t. Time’s passin’, I guess—dullin’ the hurt. I—have to—work at rememberin’ some things about Mary now. Her voice, for instance, the way she walked. Sometimes—I hate to admit it—sometimes I have to stop and think of just how she looked. I mean I know how she looked, but I have to—” Then his voice took on the steel edge again. “I won’t rest easy until I nail this sixth man, Jim. He’s somewhere out there, waitin’. Don’t expect me back until I’ve killed him.”
Hume watched with clamped jaws as Nash turned abruptly and went out, folding the papers and putting them into his jacket pocket.
He hoped like hell there was really a sixth man Because he knew Nash would never rest until he found him.
The two men who had ridden with Benedict in the past were both in the town of Deer Crossing when the Wells Fargo man rode in. What he found interesting was that the town was less than fifty miles from Reddings.
The fact gave rise to a hope within him that he might, at last, be onto something.
The men were named Regan and Culp. Both worked in the Silver Lady Saloon; Regan as a bouncer and Culp as a shotgun guard in the large gambling room. It took up half the lower floor of the saloon and catered to trail men and anyone who had a dollar they figured they could turn into two by gambling. Just about every game of chance was here. A lot of money flowed through that room. Guards with double-barreled shotguns, perched on high stools, were stationed around the walls. At the busiest times, there would be up to ten such guards.
But when Nash arrived, in mid-morning, it was quiet and only a few quiet hands of poker were being played. The men looked haggard and hollow-eyed. The room stank of stale tobacco smoke, spilled liquor, sweat and horses. There were two guards, one at each end of the long room. Nash recognized Culp at the far end, squat, moon-faced and button-eyed. Regan, he saw, was leaning on the piano, talking to a ginger-haired whore. The piano player was a negro who was rolling his head, eyes closed, and lost in the tinny melody his pink-palmed hands battered out of the old instrument.
Nash bought a glass of whisky and carried it to where Regan stood. The ginger-haired woman saw him first, patted her hair at the back of her head, smiled mechanically—and tugged down the neckline of her faded dress. She was fat and smelled of a mixture of body odor and perfumed powder.
“Lookin’ for a good time, honey?”
Nash tossed down his whisky.
“You couldn’t show it to me,” he said coldly. Regan turned sharply, ready for trouble. Nash gave him a mirthless grin. The negro stopped playing and prepared to ease off his stool as Nash spoke. “Howdy, Regan.”
The bouncer frowned slightly, then recognized the Wells Fargo agent.
“Nash,” he breathed.
“Want a word with you. And Culp.”
Regan was a rawboned man with prominent knuckles and Adam’s apple. He casually swung a hand and clipped the ginger haired woman across the mouth as she urged him to beat Nash’s head in for insulting her.
“Shut your face, whore,” he growled. “Go tell Culp an old friend of ours is here. Name of Clay Nash.”
He grinned tightly as the sobbing woman hurried off. The negro slid off his stool and swiftly backed away. Other drinkers watched—and made ready to dive for cover. “We’ll wait for Culp,” Regan said.
“Suits me.”
Then Culp appeared in the doorway of the gambling room. He still carried the shotgun and he paused only long enough to identify Nash, then he strode forward. The squat man raked his button eyes over the W
ells Fargo man and then looked quizzically at Regan.
“What’s he want?”
Regan shrugged and Nash spoke quietly.
“You know I’m on the Reddings massacre. I hear you two were there with Benedict.”
Regan paled.
“Like hell. You can’t pin that one on us, Nash.”
Culp, cooler-headed, merely slitted his eyes and shook his head.
“We ain’t been in trouble for a long while, Nash. Ain’t seen Benedict in a coon’s age.”
Nash looked at him levelly.
“I heard Benedict was through here—couple of months back.”
“Sure. But we wasn’t.”
Nash flicked his gaze to the tensed Regan.
“You mean to say he never approached two of his old pards about that job?”
Neither man spoke as Nash continued.
“He thought he was gonna get his hands on thirty thousand. He’d’ve cut in his old pards when he needed men to pull it off.”
Regan and Culp exchanged a glance and Culp sighed. “All right. He asked us. We said no.”
Nash looked his disbelief.
“You believe what you like,” Culp told him coolly. “It’s gospel. We both done a stretch in Yuma and we can show you our backs to prove it weren’t no picnic. Both of us figured that was it. We worked it out. We’d spent more than half our lives in prison. Were inside more than we was out. We figured it was loco and reckoned we’d try our hands at honest jobs.”
Nash still wasn’t sure, but there was something in Culp’s manner and tone that told him, deep down, the man spoke the truth.
“You tell this to Benedict?”
“We did,” Regan said, tightly. “He didn’t seem to care. Said he had another feller to look up who was worth more than the two of us put together. He said he was a man he could depend on to put his bullets where he was told.” Nash tensed.
“You mean Walt Stern or Lance Short?”
“Hell, no. He already had them fellers; Jeff Doane, too. And Cotton Matthews was comin’ up out of Mexico he reckoned.”
Nash felt the tension increase as he asked, “Then who was this hombre? One of his old bunch?”
“Nope. Some jasper he knew in Canyon City Pen. Garrett?” Culp looked at Regan for confirmation but the lean man shrugged, not taking his eyes off Nash.
“I dunno. If I did, don’t see why we should tell Nash. We don’t have to make it any easier for him—not after the roustin’ he’s given us over the years.”
Culp looked like he didn’t care one way or the other. Nash set his gun barrel eyes on them.
“It was a hombre called Dan Barrett—right?”
Before he could stop himself, Culp nodded and started to speak.
“Yeah, that’s the name—” He shrugged.
Nash held their gazes.
“Tell me somethin’ about Barrett.”
“Can’t. Dunno him,” Regan said.
“Except he’s a killer, accordin’ to Benedict,” Culp added. The shotgun angled slightly towards Nash. “And that’s all the time we got to spare, mister.”
Nash nodded and turned away slowly. He had what he wanted all right. Barrett had to be the man. Of course, there was no guarantee that Barrett had accepted Benedict’s offer, but it seemed likely he had. Nash was almost to the batwings when he heard chairs scraping violently and he started to whip around, his hand streaking for his gun butt.
Regan was already drawing and Culp was swinging up his shotgun.
Nash dropped to one knee and his six-gun blasted before Regan’s Colt was clear of leather. Men dived for cover as Regan lifted to his toes, staggered into Culp and knocked the squat man off-balance. The first charge of buckshot punched a massive hole in the slats of the batwings as Nash kicked over a table and threw himself behind it.
Culp let go with the second barrel. Splinters flew from the upper edge of the table and it shuddered violently. Nash somersaulted out, wrenched himself around and triggered again. Culp’s head snapped back and he coughed as his legs buckled, the shotgun sliding to the floor. Nash could have killed him with another shot but the man was badly hit in his barrel-chest, so he stood up, walked through the gunsmoke and kicked the shotgun out of reach.
Regan was twitching and jerking on the floor, moaning as he clasped locked fingers to a belly wound. He died as Nash watched.
The Wells Fargo man’s cold gaze touched Culp’s pain-filled eyes as he reloaded his smoking Colt and turned to go. He froze as two men wearing brass stars came in, rifles in hands.
“Hold it right there, mister,” snapped the older of the two, obviously the sheriff. “You don’t just down two men in my town and walk on out.”
“It was a fair shake. Sheriff,” Nash told him.
“We’ll see about that. Gimme that gun and come on across to my office while we get it sorted out.”
Nash sighed and handed over his gun. He would soon get this fixed up, but it would delay him some.
And he was impatient to get to Sage Bend and look up Dan Barrett: he was certain now that the man was Mary’s killer.
Eadie saw the rider coming across the valley. He was riding hell-for-leather and she frowned as she shaded her eyes with her hands. Then she tensed and glanced towards the river where Dan Barrett was working, washing out some deerskins he had been stretching in the sun. Crissy was playing at the rear of the house.
Eadie looked again at the rider and then called to her husband. When he glanced up, she pointed. He straightened and snatched the rifle he had propped within easy reach.
He ran up the slope towards her.
“Recognize him?” he called.
“I think it’s Cassidy.” Eadie said, studying his face closely as he came up and seeing his relief as he nodded jerkily.
“Yeah. Kid Cassidy.” He lowered the hammer on the rifle.
Eadie put a hand on his forearm, and looked intently into his face.
“You’ve got to tell me, Dan. Somethin’s wrong and I want to know what it is.”
“Nothin’ I keep tellin’ you. There’s nothin’.” He shook free and hurried to the corrals as Cassidy came racing into the yard. He turned sharply as Eadie ran to join him. “Go back to the house, Eadie.”
She shook her head.
“I’m stayin’. I’ve a right to know what’s wrong.”
He started to argue but then Cassidy skidded his mount to a halt and quit leather easily, holding the horse on a short rein. He looked at Eadie and frowned at Barrett.
“Kind of private, Dan,” he panted.
“I’m not leavin’ you two alone,” Eadie said adamantly. “I’ll follow you around wherever you go so you might as well tell me what’s happenin’ right now!”
Kid Cassidy shrugged.
“Your deal, Dan.”
Barrett gave his wife a murderous look, then turned his gaze on the gunfighter.
“What’s the bee in your ear, Kid? Somethin’ happened?”
Cassidy still hesitated, not liking to talk in Eadie’s presence, but he finally gave a heavy sigh and made a gesture of resignation.
“Yeah, somethin’s happened, all right. Down at Deer Crossin’. Been a gunfight.”
Eadie remained silent, watching the two men and listening intently. She saw Barrett’s face stiffen.
“Gunfight?” he echoed, “Who with?”
“You remember Regan and Culp?” Cassidy asked. Barrett shook his head.
“Never heard of ’em.”
“Well, they was two of Benedict’s old pards. Used to ride with him years ago, then went their own ways and got into more trouble than you could shake a stick at. Anyway, seems they been goin’ straight—well, straight enough. Worked the Silver Lady Saloon in Deer Crossin’. Regan was a bouncer, Culp was a shotgun guard in the gamblin’ room.”
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t want their life history,” Barrett snapped. “They was two of Benedict’s old sidekicks, that’s all I need to know, and that they was in Deer Crossin’. What ha
ppened to ’em?”
Cassidy’s eyes were granite hard.
“They tangled with a feller named Clay Nash.”
Barrett stiffened and couldn’t help but throw his wife a startled look. She felt her mouth open as she saw the alarm in his eyes. Then he clamped his jaws together and the muscles bulged and pulsed. He spoke through his teeth. “What happened?”
“Nash was walkin’ away from ’em. Regan started his draw. Culp had a shotgun in his hands and all he had to do was cock and fire. Nash killed Regan with a bullet in the belly and Culp’s in the infirmary, lung shot. Mightn’t make it.”
“Judas Priest!” Barrett breathed, “When?”
“Yest’y. News come down the telegraph. Bit of gossip between the operators here and in Deer Crossin’. Seems no one’d ever seen anyone walk away from a cold-decked deal like that before. Nash must’ve been like greased lightnin’.” Barrett nodded, chewing at his bottom lip.
“You know what he wanted with ’em in the first place?”
“No details. But I reckon he was just checkin’ out all Benedict’s old men. Would they know your name?” Barrett frowned thoughtfully.
“Mebbe. I know he’d been in Deer Crossin’ before contactin’—”
He broke off abruptly, suddenly aware of Eadie. She was looking horrified.
“Oh, my God, Dan,” she gasped. “Don’t let me guess. Don’t let me imagine all kinds of—horrible things by only knowing the little I’ve heard. Tell me. Tell me the truth—” She started to sob. “Tell me—I—I’m wrong in thinkin’—thinkin’ you were—mixed-up with this man—Benedict—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. “Go back to the house and start packin’. This time we’re goin’ Right now. And by goin’, I mean over the peaks.”
He threw a hand towards the high Rockies where the keening winds dusted snow from the tops in permanent, misty banners.
Eadie looked stunned.
“You mean—take Crissy?”
“Sure, take Crissy,” Barrett yelled at her. “We’re a family, ain’t we, damn it? Everythin’ I’ve done has been for all of us. Yeah—we go together. Now move.”