Clay Nash 10

by Brett Waring

  But he thrust these thoughts from his mind as he came in on the approach to the ranch buildings.

  Nash rode with his rifle at the ready, his eyes roving over the log-built house, seeing the split-wood section at one end that had been left for future extensions, the partly-built stone fireplace, the corrals and a small barn. It was in a good position, on the knoll, overlooking the valley approaches, the type of place a man with a past that might catch up with him one day would choose.

  Clay Nash rode slowly around the house and outbuildings noting the open door, easing his mount around to such an angle that he was able to see inside. There was no smell of wood smoke and there were no animals: seemed they had all been turned loose.

  Nash dismounted and checked out the barn and tool sheds. He went through the house, knowing he wasn’t going to find anyone there but searching every corner before he was finally satisfied enough to lower the hammer on the Winchester. He went outside to his horse and drank from the saddle canteen. He sat on the middle corral rail and commenced to roll a cigarette, thinking out his next move. As he built the smoke, he glanced up at the Rockies, plain and clear-cut now that the sun was higher. Barrett would be somewhere up there. With his family. The man was either a fool, desperate—or he really loved his wife and child.

  But he was still a killer, Nash thought, as he struck a vesta, lit the cigarette, then shook out the flame and broke the vesta stem between thumb and forefinger before flicking it to the ground.

  That was when he saw the map drawn in the dust.

  He got to his knees and examined it. He leaned over it and blew gently. The lines had been gouged through the surface dust into the harder ground beneath. They had been filled in a little with dust and grit blown there by the winds, but beneath the film, they were more permanent.

  One corner of the crude map had been destroyed by a boot or a horse’s hoof, but most of it was plain enough. He glanced towards the Rockies. There was no mistaking the lines: they followed the outline of the peaks exactly.

  A thin, wavering line emerged out of the crude ‘V’ that represented a valley, climbed across the face of the mountain slopes to just below the snowline. Then it appeared to go around the other side and was picked up on the second part of the dirt map, leading down to meandering twin lines that could only represent a stream or river.

  Nash bared his teeth in a tight grin.

  He could follow Barrett every step of the way now without having to waste time even looking for a trail.

  But there was one thing he had to try first. Maybe Barrett wasn’t far up that first peak yet; maybe he would be watching his back trail and, if so, maybe Nash could bring him back.

  He went inside the house and came out fifteen minutes later, picking up the horses’ reins and leading the animals across the yard behind the tool shed.

  There was a strong smell of wood smoke and pretty soon, flames began licking at the shingle roof of the ranch house.

  The higher they climbed the colder it became and the stronger the winds blew across the face of the mountain. Timber was thinning as they moved towards the snowline.

  Crissy seemed to be drugged by the cold, which, thought Eadie, was a good thing. It would be better if the little girl slept most of the time. But she would have to watch, just the same, to make sure she didn’t drift away into …

  “Judas priest!”

  Eadie reined-down instinctively at the sudden expletive and looked up to the ledge where Dan Barrett had turned his mount to wait for her. He was standing in the stirrups staring back towards the distant valley.

  She hipped awkwardly in the saddle, feeling Crissy stir, and glanced back. Eadie gave a small gasp as she saw the rising column of black-gray smoke spiraling out of the valley, where their ranch house was. Alarmed, she spun to stare at her husband.

  “Oh, Dan! Is—it—our place?”

  Barrett nodded slowly, still staring at the smoke, his lips clamped tightly.

  “Yeah,” he said, hair blowing wildly about his face as a gust of icy wind struck him. “That’s the ranch.”

  “But—who?” Eadie was bewildered, not thinking straight.

  “Nash,” he gritted. “Who else?”

  “You can’t be sure—”

  “The hell I can’t. He must’ve gotten by Cassidy. The Kid said he’d come after me if he downed Nash so’s we wouldn’t have to make the rest of the journey. So’s we could go back home. It’s why I ain’t forced the pace, I waited to be on this side of the mountain in case he came with good news.” He shook his head slowly, breath jetting out of his mouth in a white plume as he sighed gustily. “But that’s the worst kind of news I can get. It’s Nash lettin’ me know he downed Cassidy and he’s comin’.”

  Eadie paled and began to tremble.

  “Yeah, he’s comin’,” Barrett said heavily, “and there ain’t nothin’ gonna stop him, looks like. Maybe he figures if I see the smoke I’ll be loco enough to go back. But I won’t. We’re pushin’ on, Eadie. Up and over like I planned all along.”

  “But, Dan. We’ll have no money—nothing. We won’t be able to make a new start.”

  “We will,” Barrett said grimly. “I’ll get money somehow.”

  “‘Like—like you did to pay off the mortgage?” Eadie asked tightly and Barrett snapped his gaze towards her.

  “You sayin’ somethin’, woman?” he demanded.

  Eadie tilted her chin at him defiantly.

  “I guess I am, Dan. I’m not a complete fool. I know while you were away, supposedly trail driving, was the exact time of the Reddings way-station attack. And you came back with a lot more money than any of us expected.”

  “I won it gamblin’. I told you.”

  “I believed you, too. But I got to thinkin’ about your story last night. I lay awake for hours. Nash wouldn’t come after you if the truth was—what you claimed.”

  She started to break and Barrett swore.

  “Shut up, woman. We’re wastin’ time. All you got to worry about is that I’m doin’ everythin’ I can to get you and Crissy away safely. Pay no never mind to what I might or might not have done. We’re together. That’s all that counts. And, if you do like I say, we’ll stay together and start a new life.”

  He spun his mount on the ledge.

  “Now, let’s go.”

  He spurred the weary mount up the slope towards the timberline—and the cold snows capping the peak.

  Eadie stifled her sobs, hugged Crissy with one arm, kicked her heels into her mount’s flanks and set it moving up the slope after Barrett.

  The nightmare, she thought, was only just beginning.

  Chapter Ten

  The Last, Long Trail

  Nash didn’t wait long at the burning ranch; he stayed until it was merely a pile of smoking, charred timbers, with a few small fires still smoldering. Then he mounted and, leading his packhorse, rode slowly along the trail towards the peaks.

  There was no sign of Barrett by the time Nash reached the foothills. He put his mount to the top of a small butte, took out his leather-and-brassbound telescope, and pulled the tubes open to their full length. He adjusted focus and raked the large objective lens over the high trails on the peak …

  The timber was thin where he searched but he could find no sign of the fugitives. Maybe he was wrong: he had guessed that Barrett and his family had left about twelve hours earlier. It was possible he had misread the signs.

  Just before closing the ’scope, he raked the lens across the peak at snowline, hoping for a glimpse of the weather, for there were already huge masses of leaden, swirling clouds piling up. They could mean a blizzard was on its way.

  He stiffened as he saw a moving blackness against the snow, well above the line. Nash swiftly changed focus.

  “That loco fool,” he breathed. “He’s taken the woman and kid with him. Guess he must’ve seen that smoke after all and decided to run clear up and over the Rockies.”

  It told Nash just how much the man feared him. It wa
s also possible that Barrett only wanted to ensure the safety of his wife and child. This could be the real reason behind the headlong, dangerous flight up into the snows.

  Either way, it was going to be a tough chore to catch up with the killer; he had a good start, and any blizzard would come down and turn the mountain into a white, freezing hell.

  Nash closed the telescope with a snap, mounted, and rode past the ruins of the ranch house—taking the ill-defined trail that led towards the Rockies.

  The blizzard formed and shrieked over the mountain peak much faster than Dan Barrett had expected.

  He had been watching the leaden clouds piling up all morning and had figured that maybe by late afternoon the storm would break. He had hopes of finding shelter by mid-afternoon at the latest, allowing him time to dig in and prepare.

  Instead, the clouds thickened, congealed into an almost solid mass, and then, seemingly dragged down by their own weight, settled over the peak and the upper slopes. Without further warning, they swirled and burst apart in the shrieking storm and the Barretts were caught in the open as the first slashing razors of the wind cut at them.

  Crissy cried aloud with the blast of intense cold that slammed against her face and she swiftly ducked her head inside the bear skin, clinging to the warmth of her mother’s body as Eadie folded the rugs about her more tightly.

  “Hush, baby,” she said, pressing her numbed lips against the top of Crissy’s head. “It’s all right.”

  But the child was unable to hear her words because of the howling wind. The horses whinnied and shied, wanting to turn their rumps to the storm, but, taking her lead from Barrett, Eadie whipped and kicked and beat her animal, forcing it higher along the path made by her husband.

  The wind increased in power and she found herself leaning into it, head down, collar up, shivering despite all the furs around her. She had never known such bitter cold. The air seemed thinner, starving her lungs and making her senses reel. Tears were squeezed out of her eyes, half blinding her. The snow leapt in a howling white vortex enveloping her and the frightened horse. Crissy clung like a leech. Eadie tried to raise her head, was unable to do so for more than a few inches—then felt fear.

  She couldn’t see Dan.

  There was nothing before her but a solid white wall that moved like a trembling curtain, wavering, but never allowing any chinks in its solidity.

  “Dan,” she screamed but the wind flung the word back down her throat. The iciness of the air going into her lungs made her cough and she felt Crissy’s small body start to convulse with sobs as she instinctively felt her mother’s panic. “Hush, baby,” Eadie said, lowering her head inside the bear rug to speak. “Hush. I’m just—trying to attract Poppa’s—attention. We’ll find shelter—soon.”

  She lifted her head again, teeth chewing at her numbed bottom lip and drawing blood. But she didn’t notice or feel the pain. She tried to shade her eyes from the swirling snow with a hand but it made no difference. It seemed impossible that Dan had disappeared. He had been no more than five yards ahead and slightly above, picking his way carefully up the steep slope. It just wasn’t possible for him to be separated from them so swiftly.

  The reality was that this was what had happened.

  The storm had begun so abruptly and with such intensity, that it was almost like a solid wall between them, cutting off communication by sight and sound. It was a fluid wall but showed no signs of thinning; in fact, if anything, the storm was increasing and the snow blasts were thicker and more frequent.

  Eadie began to sob as her voice trailed off. She leaned to one side into the wind—and realized that the horse must have changed direction. She knew that the animal’s instinct for survival was better than her own.

  She had to face it they were lost. Dan was probably searching for them but they could hear nothing except the deafening howl of the wind, see nothing but the gray-white wall of snow—and feel nothing but the death-grip of the cold.

  She decided she must trust the horse and let it have its head.

  Trembling with fear as much as with the cold, she let the reins hang loose and allowed the animal to turn in whichever direction it chose. She clung to Crissy, clutching the warm little body to her, praying that they would survive and meet Dan when the storm was over.

  “Eadieeeeeee.”

  Dan Barrett’s voice cracked with the intensity of his cry but he could hardly hear the word himself as the bleak winds cut at his ears and hammered at his body. He had dismounted and was standing in the lee of his horse which had its head down, rump facing the snow blasts.

  “Criss-eeeeeeeeee.”

  Barrett felt frantic. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just the mountain and the blizzard—and it was growing in power. He knew Eadie wouldn’t know what to do. She had been in snowstorms before, on well-defined trails, near a town or home, but she had never been caught out in a high-country blizzard like this. He had weathered several, up in Montana and the Dakotas: he had had to survive, for there had been armed posses on his back trail at the time, and a man learned a lot of things when his life was on the line.

  But Eadie would be handicapped by Crissy. The child could not be expected to withstand the rigors of a blizzard. The thought shook Barrett and he felt the panic begin to rise, the utter helplessness forming a coldness inside him that rivaled the terrible storm surrounding him.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he sobbed. And it was more a prayer than an expletive. “Don’t let anythin’ happen to ’em.”

  He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t make them hear. His hope was that Eadie’s horse would follow the scent of his own mount and bring his family to him. But he suddenly realized the animal’s nostrils would be numbed with the cold and wouldn’t be able to find the scent.

  In desperation, he dragged his gun and fired several shots but the sounds were whipped away almost instantly, becoming flat cracks that would carry no more than a few yards.

  Still, he emptied his six-gun and cursed himself for not leaving a rifle with his wife. He reloaded with unfeeling fingers, dropping several cartridges in the snow in his efforts. But it was an old habit that died hard: he had to replace those spent bullets.

  He tried calling again, several times. He listened, in vain. The world was full of banshees, drowning out every other sound.

  Beaten, Barrett made his move and cast wildly about the slopes for an hour, calling, shooting his Colt into the air and dragging the unwilling horse behind him.

  Finally, he put the horse behind a boulder that had a deep drift of snow piling behind it and curled up against the animal’s warmth. He was near-frozen and sick with fear and anguish.

  He drew up his knees and rested his forearms across them. Then he lowered his head onto his arms and began to sob. All these years, death had never touched him, never aroused in him any feelings at all, either for his victims, or in his own conscience. But, now, when there was a possibility that his own loved ones could die—he thought he would go insane.

  Clay Nash found a cave to shelter in for the night.

  He had looked up the slopes towards the peaks and seen that they had disappeared behind a grayness that told him there was a bad snowstorm raging. He would gain nothing by trying to climb higher. The storm would have stopped Barrett and his family.

  Nash built a small fire, cooked some bacon and beans and fried up thick chunks of cornpone in the grease. He brewed coffee, wrapped himself in his blankets after building up the fire, and settled down to an early night.

  Nash awoke early. There was a chill grayness in the cave and outside it didn’t look much better. There seemed to be mists, which meant the wind had dropped. So had the temperature. The remains of the coffee in the pot were frozen solid. But he soon had the fire roaring, and he thawed out, ate a hurried but hearty breakfast and then saddled up and left the cave.

  Outside, the mists were just beginning to part as the winds started to stir again. He could see a pale sun gleaming weakly through the grayness, but he c
ould not yet see the peak. Tugging his fur collar closer about his face. Nash mounted and set off up the slope.

  There was nothing but an expanse of snow dropping away from where Barrett had sheltered during the storm. It had abated in the early hours of the morning but he had been too cold to stir himself and too drugged to call to Eadie or Crissy.

  He rose stiffly and looked around. The mountain face had changed completely. All the stunted bushes and rocks had been covered with a thick, glistening layer of snow.

  The mists had shredded and angled rays of the early sun gilded the peak, nearly blinding him as they reflected from the snow crystals. He cleared his throat, swallowed and cupped stiff, freezing hands around his lips. He tried to call Eadie’s name but only a croak came out. Barrett swallowed and tried again. This time he managed it and subsequent attempts were even stronger and clearer.

  But, though he waited until he could hear his own heart beating, there was no reply.

  Dan Barrett’s jaw was as hard as steel; his lips a razor-slash and bloodless. He mounted the freezing horse and kicked and lashed it down the slope.

  Suddenly, the horse whinnied wildly and plunged as it sank into a deep snowdrift. Barrett fought it but slipped from the saddle and floundered around in the loose snow as the horse lunged and scrabbled frantically with its forehooves to get out. It finally heaved itself free.

  Barrett thrust his hand down for leverage so that he, too, could get up. He sank to the armpit and, just as he was about to withdraw it, his hand touched something hairy. His glove came off and he started to yank his hand away, thinking it was some sort of animal. But it didn’t move. He thrust his hand down again and felt the hair and the hide beneath. He groped around, his movements becoming frantic as his fingers touched something that could be—flesh.

  Making whimpering sounds, he fell on his hands and knees and began digging desperately.

  Ten minutes later, the sweat turning to ice on his face, he looked into the dead features of Eadie. A little more digging and he saw that she was still clasping the frozen child in her arms.