Clay Nash 14

by Brett Waring

  Hume sighed. “Yeah. But I have to go along with you. It would have been too easy to plant that marked deck on Parrish during the chaos after the shooting and moving the body. And it could well have been a set-up.”

  Nash tensed.

  “Callan’s hand was a straight, in diamonds. He discarded three cards, a pair of nines and a seven. Left him with only an ace and a two. Kind of a long chance, don’t you reckon, to build a straight to that?”

  “A man who discards a pair in the hope of building a straight to an ace and a deuce is either a mighty chancy gambler or a damn fool.”

  “There’s a third choice. He didn’t discard the pair.”

  Nash frowned.

  “He could have discarded one nine, the seven and another card, any other card. But when he saw Parrish had a full house, kings high, but treble nines, he could’ve slipped the extra nine out of the marked deck, accused Parrish, prodded him into the gunfight then, in the confusion afterwards, planted the remainder of the marked deck on him.”

  Nash thought about it only briefly and nodded. “It’s complicated but he could’ve done it, ’specially if he’d showed his cards first. Then all eyes would’ve turned to Parrish to see what he had. He could easily have made the switch then and framed Mitch. Question is why?”

  “That’s the big one,” Hume agreed.

  “And there has to be something else,” Nash said flatly, expectantly.

  Jim Hume nodded and opened a manila folder, took out two small squares of paper and handed them across to Nash. The agent frowned, already recognizing them as company death slips, issued when Wells Fargo employees were killed in the course of duty or simply when still on the company payroll. These were pale blue. Yellow ones would have meant notification of the deaths of men who had been former employees. Wells Fargo kept track of all its former employees, especially men who might have knowledge of the company’s schedules and methods that could be used to make a robbery go off more easily.

  Nash stiffened as he read the name on the slips Hume had handed him. ‘Randolph Shaw’ and ‘Charles (Chuck) Claybourne’.

  “By God!” Nash breathed, glancing at the slips. “Both killed on the same day. Same day as Mitch Parrish, too!” He glanced up, frowning. “What’s going on, Jim?”

  “I don’t know, Clay. I’ve nothing solid to go on, but I’m certain sure those three deaths are linked in some way. It’s only a hunch, but a damn strong one.”

  Nash had long ago learned never to ignore one of Hume’s hunches. The man had an uncanny knack of getting a ‘feeling’ about a job that paid off in most cases. He would send a man off on a direction that, on the surface, seemed plumb loco, but the results showed he knew exactly what he was doing all along, and yet he was merely following ‘a hunch’.

  Clay Nash studied the Death Slips more thoroughly.

  “Chuck Claybourne was riding shotgun on Mormon Run stage when he got it,” he read aloud. “Express box had three thousand dollars in cash, another two in silver jewelry, and two and a half thousand in gold.” He snapped his head up. “Would’ve been a helluva good haul if the bandit had gotten his hands on it. Who was the driver?” He consulted the report and nodded slowly. “Yeah, old Whip Clarke, he’d know enough to get the team goin’ and keep it goin’. Saved the company a heap in insurance.”

  Nash broke off as he saw Hume’s face. The chief of detectives was slowly shaking his head.

  “Clarke got the stage out of there in a hurry, all right, but he needn’t have bothered. The killer wasn’t after the express box.”

  “What?”

  “He was after what he got: Chuck Claybourne.”

  “How’d you figure that?”

  “He blew Chuck apart, practically, with one shot from what had to be a buffalo rifle, a Sharps, I reckon, though maybe it could’ve been a Remington rolling-block. We dug the slug out of the rear wall of the coach. It went clear through Chuck and the front wall and damn near penetrated the rear, too, but an iron bolt of the roof rack checked it. Mangled the lead but its weight was around 560 grains. Mighty heavy projectile. Means it had to be from at least a .45 caliber rifle and one with a long breech to take at least a three-inch cartridge. Otherwise the lead wouldn’t have had so much power of penetration.”

  Nash nodded, agreeing with Hume unhesitatingly, for he knew Hume was an expert on ballistics and one of the pioneers in that aspect of detecting. He wasn’t about to argue with anything Hume told him in relation to that recovered slug.

  “Could have been a .50 caliber with a slightly shorter chamber,” Hume continued, “but there was enough of the slug’s base left to make me tolerably sure it was a .45. If it was a Sharps, it had to be a special, the Creedmoor model built for accuracy after they took out the target shoot at Creedmoor in ’52. Wouldn’t be too many still around. And, to top it off, our man rode down from where he’d holed up on Joshua’s Seat and still put a bullet through Chuck’s head.”

  Nash looked grim. “Then he really wanted to make sure Chuck was dead. Son of a bitch! How about Randy Shaw?”

  Hume shook his head slowly. “Someone had to know Randy well enough so they could exploit his short temper. They set him up with a ‘married couple’ calling themselves Cameron and complainin’ loud and long about the stage journey. They prodded Randy into going for his gun. You know he was a hothead. He fell for it but this ‘Cameron’ was a professional. Nailed him dead center through the ticker, single shot. Witnesses all said Randy drew first. The ‘Camerons’ faded and there’s no trace of ’em.”

  Nash looked at Hume sharply. “That’s Callan and the Camerons gone. How about Chuck’s killer?”

  “Hell, no one saw him at all.”

  “Must’ve left some tracks if he rode down and put a bullet in Chuck’s head.”

  “The only ones he did leave. Might’ve taken off and flown away for all the other sign we found.”

  Nash looked at the slips of paper again. “Chuck killed at Joshua’s Seat outside of Sundance; Randy in Fort Bridger and Mitch Parrish in Virginia City. Stretch things a mite and they’re all in the same general direction where those fellers’ve been working for—how long? The past year or so?”

  “That’s right, and it’s one of the things that bothers me. None of them ever crossed trails on the same jobs. Randy left the guards, as you know, to do our management course but none of his jobs before he left cut across anything Chuck or Mitch were handling.” He looked steadily at Nash. “The only common factor, apart from the fact they worked for Wells Fargo, is that they were all personal friends of yours.”

  Nash stared as the implication hit him.

  “That sure is a helluva strange thing for you to say, Jim!”

  Hume shrugged. “I’ve looked at it from every which way, Clay. The dead men hardly knew each other, only nodding acquaintances, at least, since they joined Wells Fargo. I haven’t gone back beyond that time yet. But each and every one of those fellers has been good friends with you at one time or another, usually when you’ve met them while on assignment from me. You seem to have kept up the contact over the years.”

  “Sure. Liked ’em all, though I guess I was friendlier with Mitch Parrish than the other two. It was you asked me to take a personal interest in him during his training as an Investigator.”

  “Yeah, well Mitch showed a lot of promise, as you know, and the extra tuition was worth it. He’s pulled off some damn tough chores.”

  “And I never knew he had a gamblin’ streak in him,” Nash said flatly, holding Hume’s gaze.

  Jim Hume tapped the folder in front of him. “It’s all in there, Clay.” He picked up the folder and passed it across the desk. “The dossiers on Claybourne and Shaw are in there, too.”

  Nash took the thick folder, still watching Hume’s face. “My job is what?”

  “Find out why those three good men died. There has to be something behind it, Clay. You’ll find details of what they were working on recently, but I guess it’s not going to be much help. They�
�d cleared-up all their cases and Randy, of course, had been mainly busy in taking over management of the Fort Bridger depot, but you might go back a ways and see just what he had on his plate during the past year. I’ve been through it, but you might see some common link I’ve missed.”

  “Mitch on assignment when he got shot?”

  Hume shook his head. “He was on leave. Had some due and we’re waiting for the trial to come up of the last bunch of road agents he brought in. Been a bit of a backlog because one of the circuit judges died and they’re having trouble finding someone else willing to travel around holding court.”

  Clay Nash stood straight and hefted the file. “I’d better get reading, then.”

  “Come back here when you’ve finished.”

  At the door, Nash turned and spoke quietly, though his words carried easily to the clerks in the outer office.

  “Jim, I want this assignment. Mitch Parrish was my friend. I was best man at his wedding and I admire Lucy, his widow. I aim to nail the son of a bitch who made her wear black. No matter what.”

  Without waiting for reply, Nash opened the door and turned and strode purposefully through the outer office, aware of the stares of the clerks.

  They all knew Clay Nash and his reputation. When he went down the stairs they began talking animatedly among themselves.

  For when Nash said he would get his man, he did exactly that, and if he had to leave a trail of corpses along the way, then, that was okay, too.

  Nash never made idle threats.

  Never.

  Chapter Three – Nash’s Way

  Lucy Parrish was a beautiful woman and Nash hated to see her hazel eyes rimmed with red from crying. He understood her feelings, of course. She had just been coming to terms with the fact that she was a new widow when Nash turned up and a flood of old memories came back to drown her in sorrow once more.

  He felt awkward and didn’t know what to do, so decided the best thing would be to allow Lucy to cry it out. Then he made coffee and got her calmed down. But a thoughtless word by him about some past pleasure the three of them had shared, Lucy, Parrish and Nash, set her off again.

  But Lucy had inner strength, struggled to stifle her sorrow and won the battle. Sitting in the small parlor of the clapboard house on one of the hills overlooking Virginia City, Nash waited for her to speak. She was a girl of medium height, had silky brown hair arranged in natural waves about an oblong face with pale, smooth skin. Lucy was not an outdoor girl, though she enjoyed horse riding and a little gardening. But she had not allowed the western weather to dry up her skin.

  Indeed, her complexion was one attribute that set her apart immediately from other women in that region. That and her natural beauty, with her small, straight nose, full red lips and warm hazel eyes. Her figure was enough to fill any lonely cowpoke’s dreams. She made all her own clothes, showing a real flair in this direction.

  “I’m so pleased you were able to come, Clay,” she said in her husky voice. “I’ve made friends here in town, but, as you know, I have no living relatives and you were the closest of—Mitch’s friends. You’ve been good to us.”

  Nash sat on the sofa beside her and took one of her hands in his tanned calloused ones.

  “I’m here to see if I can help you in any way, Lucy,” he told her, “and to see if you can help me, too.”

  The girl frowned puzzledly. “I help you? How do you mean, Clay?”

  He stared into her oval face, seeing the hurt back there in her eyes, knowing he was about to bring all the grief to the surface again but unable to do anything about it.

  “Lucy, I’d have come anyway, you know that, but I’m here officially, too. Wells Fargo have assigned me to find out just what was behind Mitch’s killing.”

  She blinked, paling a little more. He felt her hand convulse and tighten in his.

  “I—don’t understand, Clay.” Her breathing was quickening as she fought rising emotion. “Mitch was killed in a gunfight over cards. Weren’t you told that?”

  “Sure, Lucy. But sometimes things aren’t always what they seem.”

  Lucy Parrish was an intelligent woman. “You believe there was something else behind Mitch’s death? That the—the gunfight was—rigged-up?”

  He felt her beginning to shake and tightened his grip on her hands. “Hold on, Lucy,” he said gently. “You all right? I can leave this, I guess, if you ...”

  She shook her head, straightening her shoulders.

  “If it has to be said, Clay, say it now. I—I have to admit I’m—shocked. There was no inkling that Mitch’s death was anything more than what it appeared. A fight over cards. A—stupid—fight over ...”

  She started to weep but bravely fought it and, after dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose, sucked down a deep breath and sat up straight, hands folded in her lap as she looked levelly at Nash.

  “I’ll be all right now. Promise, Clay. I—can talk.”

  “We don’t really have anything to go on, Lucy. Jim Hume has a hunch something’s wrong and you know he’s hardly ever mistaken about such things. Two other Wells Fargo men died on the same day as Mitch and at least one of them was marked down specially. The other, we can only suspect it was a set-up, same as with Mitch.” He told her briefly about the deaths of Chuck Claybourne and Randy Shaw. “Far as I know, Mitch didn’t really know ’em. Might have run across ’em in the course of his work but that’d be all. Am I wrong, Lucy? Did he know them better? Ever mention them or did they come here?”

  Lucy shook her head without hesitation. She was frowning thoughtfully and Nash let her be for a spell until she was ready to speak.

  “No, I’m sure I never heard him mention either of those names, and the men certainly never came here. But then, Mitch never mentioned his work and I didn’t pry. I understood that much of his work was confidential and I didn’t want to compromise him by prying.” She smiled fleetingly. “Not that I wasn’t curious. I simply thought it better not to ask too many questions.” He saw her mangle her damp handkerchief in her hands as she looked across the room, her eyes focused on some distant object only she could see. She spoke in almost a whisper.

  “Perhaps it would have been better if I had pried more into Mitch’s work.”

  “Might have put yourself in danger, too,” Nash pointed out and saw the shock of his words hit her like a blow in the face. “It’s possible. If Mitch knew something that made him dangerous enough to have to be killed, you could have been in danger too.” A sudden thought came to him and he saw the same thought form in her mind at the same time.

  She looked at him with fear on her face.

  “Clay! I could still be in danger! I know nothing about Mitch’s activities, but if whoever killed him—if you’re right about it being over something more than just a hand of cards—then whoever it was might think he’d confided in me! It would be the logical thing to think. Most men talk to their wives at some time about their jobs when they’re worried.”

  “Was Mitch worried lately?” Nash asked swiftly, agreeing with the girl’s reasoning but wanting to channel her thoughts away from that and onto something more positive.

  She had to stop and think briefly, then she shook her head. “I can’t say he was, Clay. He did tend to—brood a little at times. Mostly it was because we didn’t seem to be able to save enough money for our ranch. His ranch, really. I didn’t care one way of the other. As long as I was with Mitch, that was the main thing.”

  “How bad was the gambling? I have to ask, Lucy.”

  “It was out in the open, something we had learned to live with.”

  “‘Had learned’?”

  She smiled faintly. “Oh, we argued about it, at first. We had some real humdingers of rows over it. Then Mitch pulled himself together, banked part of his wages and set aside a certain amount for gambling. When he lost it, he quit till next payday. It wasn’t easy but I backed him up and he managed mostly. If he won, well like all gamblers he plowed the winnings straight back across the ca
rd table in an effort to build them up and usually finished up losing them. But, no, Clay, there were no real worries about his gambling.”

  Nash nodded and during the course of the next hour questioned Lucy closely about Mitch’s behavior in the last few weeks but there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary.

  “About the closest thing you could say he came to worrying about,” Lucy said over another cup of coffee, which she made this time, “was the prisoner he brought in a month ago.”

  Nash frowned. “Prisoner? Who was that?”

  The girl shrugged. “I’m not sure of his name. Larkin or Marvin, I think. But he was a road agent. He held up the Virginia City stage out near Bannock several weeks back and Mitch was assigned to tracking him down. He had three companions, I think, and I know that Mitch killed one man and brought in this Larkin or Marvin, wounded, and he was put in the Virginia City prison.”

  “Well, why was Mitch worried about that?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t anything like a real worry, Clay. I’ve probably given you the wrong impression. It’s just that he had brought in another outlaw a couple of weeks earlier and he was still awaiting trial. It seems that quite a few outlaws have been put into the prison over the past weeks and are still there, because of the holdup caused by that circuit judge’s death.”

  “Yeah, Jim Hume told me about that. But I don’t see why Mitch would be concerned.”

  “That’s the word, Clay,” she said swiftly. “He was more ‘concerned’ than worried. I guess it just bothered him to see all those dangerous men locked up together and waiting for trial on the outskirts of town. I know he spoke with Sheriff Race Hollander about it on several occasions.”

  “Well, it’s got me beat, Lucy. Beginnin’ to think that this time Jim Hume’s wrong.”

  “Have you checked out the other two men who were killed?”

  Nash nodded. “Nothin’ there. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything to link Mitch with the others, apart from the fact that all worked for Wells Fargo and I counted ’em all as friends. Mitch was closer to me than the others, but—it’s the only common denominator so far.” He stood abruptly. “I’ll be goin’ now, Lucy. But I’ll be in town a spell. Got a room at the Gold Nugget Hotel. If you need me, send word and I’ll be here right away.”