Clay Nash 14

by Brett Waring

  At the front door, Lucy put a hand lightly on his forearm, lifted to her toes and kissed him briefly on the cheek.

  “Thank you for coming. Clay. Is there—any real—danger for me, do you think?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Lucy. But don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you. Sure would appreciate it if you could go through Mitch’s things, his private papers and so on, and let me know if you come across anythin’ that might help.”

  “Of course, Clay,” she said huskily. “I—I’ve been putting off that chore—afraid of the memories, I guess. But I’ll make a start now as soon as you go. It has to be done.”

  “If you’d like me to ...?”

  She shook her head. “No. It has to be done, Clay. And I do need to keep busy.”

  He nodded and left her. She watched him to the end of the street, his tall figure striding back down the hill towards the bustling center of town, and then slowly closed the door.

  Lucy sighed as she walked back into the parlor and stood in the curtained doorway, looking slowly around the room. She had tried her best to brighten it up with patchwork cushion covers, embroidered platitudes framed and hung here and there—‘Home Sweet Home’, ‘Bless This House’—and she had changed the drapes three times since they had moved in. But it was a losing battle. She knew what was the trouble. It was the drab furniture, the battered and scarred sofa and chairs, the table with the varnish rubbed through in places, cracking in others, the bureau with the spotted mirror, the table lamp with the cracked china shade.

  Mitch had never been able to find the time to fix the furniture though he was always saying he ‘must’ repolish the table, send for a new mirror for the bureau, fix the splintered leg and arm on the carved chair. He simply hadn’t gotten around to these things and now, of course, he never would. She toyed with the idea of leaving things just as they were but she knew she could never stand it. She and Mitch had argued over the drabness of the house many times and perhaps his resistance to doing the chores that needed doing was a direct result of her ‘nagging’, but she couldn’t leave things like they were, not even as some sort of memorial to him.

  She had to brighten the place up, make it look more presentable. Only then would she feel comfortable.

  Bracing herself, Lucy looked long and hard at the battered Cutler roll top desk Mitch had used for all his paperwork. It was locked, the slats in the top sagging in several places and she knew it was a tricky job to get it open. She had the key to the drawers and the top. The sooner she started, the better.

  And Clay had told her to look for Mitch’s insurance papers, an employee benefit provided by Wells Fargo. He didn’t know what category Mitch would have been in, but it would likely bring her in at least a few hundred dollars by way of compensation, even though, strictly speaking, Mitch Parrish had not died while on assignment.

  Though that had not been proven yet.

  Perhaps Clay Nash would prove it. Then the compensation would be greater.

  Lucy fumbled out the small brass key and unlocked the Cutler desk, smelling the odor of ink and dust as she fought the roll top back in its slots, revealing an untidy pile of papers and small notebooks.

  She felt a catch in her throat and a lurch of her heart as she recognized Mitch’s spidery handwriting. Despite her resolve, Lucy knew this was going to be an emotion-draining task.

  The law offices in Virginia City at that time were about halfway down Oxide Street which ran off the main drag on its way through a secondary business district to the rising sharp angled hills where the main mines were outside of town. The town’s boom days were over though there was still a lot of silver being won out of the ore-laden ground.

  But gone were the bustling, brawling fighting days of the Civil War years’ boom when Confederates and Yankees both strode the streets in tense neutrality, each trying to work rich deals with the mines for silver to back their cause. The streets had run with blood on occasions and there had been a time when the ten-man police force had been backed each night by army patrols, but now there was only Sheriff Race Hollander and his tough, gun hung deputy, Red Morgan, to keep the peace in Virginia City. Hollander, big, handsome, scar-faced; Morgan, a pugnacious, bullying man. Mostly, they were enough. Both were tough, fast with six-guns, handy with fists. Hollander was a man pushing thirty but with years of gun toting experience for the law behind him, having tamed several wild cattle towns before coming north to Virginia City and finding himself some sort of niche here. He didn’t come down hard on the citizens unless he had to. A drunk he would likely see back to his home, instead of throwing him in the cells for the night, unless the man’s wife asked him to in order to teach the man a lesson or because she was afraid of being beaten.

  Cowpokes and miners in for Saturday night hell-raising were given one chance. If they were loco enough to ignore it, they found themselves with broken heads and a heavy fine the next morning. Those who were crazy-drunk or fighting-drunk, woke with more severe injuries. In some cases, if it had come to gunplay, they didn’t wake up at all. They finished under a marker on Boothill.

  Red Morgan was a good man to act as back-up to Hollander. He was in his mid-thirties, had had badge toting experience along the border from El Paso to Laredo and had once ridden with the Texas Rangers. He was a weather-beaten, taciturn man who never smiled. Some said he was embittered over an old hurt but if it were true, Morgan never let drop a hint about it.

  Nash was more inclined to figure the man as being a natural loner, one of those tough, lonely men who could get through life very well without the close friendship or even company of other men. He had a reputation that stretched way across the southwest and he was building a similar one here in the north.

  Morgan was more inclined to shoot his man down than slug him and carry him back to the cells as Hollander would.

  Both lawmen now looked at Clay Nash in the cramped office on Oxide Street as the Wells Fargo man asked his questions about Mitch Parrish.

  Race Hollander shook his head slowly. “Well, I investigated that shootin’, Nash, and it seemed like just an argument over cards to me. Mebbe the hand they quarreled over was a mite odd but poker players do some queer things, anyway.”

  “How about this Callan?” Nash asked.

  Race Hollander turned to Morgan. “You checked him out, Red.”

  Morgan, his massive arms folded over his barrel chest, looked at Nash steadily with his amber eyes and nodded briefly.

  “He’s clean.”

  “What’s that mean?” Nash asked sharply.

  Morgan shrugged. “Agent, like he said.”

  “Independent or does he work for some company?”

  “Freelance.”

  Nash sighed and shook his head. Getting information out of Red Morgan was like trying to squeeze sap from a dead tree with bare hands, he figured.

  “Why’s Wells Fargo makin’ such a big deal out of this?” Hollander asked. “You say Parrish was one of your operatives. But he was a human being, too. He had the usual weaknesses, I guess. Gamblin’ was one of ’em, looked like. Wells Fargo afraid of him givin’ the company a bad name, or somethin’?”

  Nash stared at him levelly. “A little more to it than that, I reckon. Thanks for your help, Sheriff. You, too, Morgan.”

  Red Morgan made no acknowledgement but Hollander walked to the street door with Nash.

  “You gonna be around for a while?”

  “Few days.”

  “Where you stayin’? If I find out anythin’ more I’ll pass it on to you.”

  Nash nodded. “Obliged. Room Seventeen, Gold Nugget.”

  “Okay. But you’re floggin’ a dead horse, Nash.”

  The Wells Fargo man was about to leave but swung back suddenly, one boot on the office stoop.

  “Did you know Mitch Parrish pretty well?”

  Hollander frowned. “Tolerably. We had a few dealin’s when he was after road agents and so on.”

  “He strike you as bein’ in some sort
of trouble, maybe?”

  The sheriff pursed his lips, shook his head. “Always short of dinero, but who isn’t? No. If you want my opinion, I reckon it’s just how it looks. He got a mite desperate, took a chance and rigged a card deck. He was unlucky to pick Callan, a man who’d once been a professional gambler and who knew all the tricks.”

  “First time you mentioned Callan used to be a pro,” Nash said slowly.

  Hollander met and held his gaze. “It was years ago. Down in Dodge.”

  “You knew him then?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Seen him operate in Dodge. For the Harley House. Like I said, it was years ago. Seems he quit pushin’ the pasteboards for a livin’ a long time back, went into the minin’ agency business.”

  Nash nodded slowly, touched a hand to his hat brim. “Thanks for your help, Hollander.”

  “One more thing, Nash. Parrish was your compadre, you say. I don’t want you cuttin’ loose in my town tryin’ to square off for him. Savvy?”

  Nash held the sheriff’s gaze for a long minute, then turned and walked away down the street towards the center of town.

  Hollander watched him go and felt Red Morgan at his shoulder. The battered deputy spoke quietly near his ear.

  “Dangerous bastard.”

  The sheriff grunted by way of reply. It could have meant anything.

  The governor of the Virginia City jail steepled the fingers of his hands together, elbows leaning on the edge of his polished desk, and he looked through his fingers at Clay Nash seated opposite.

  “The man’s name is Larkin, Walt Larkin,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice that seemed to go with his thick-chested body and bull neck. Late afternoon sunlight slanting through the window behind him sheened from the top of his bald head. “He held up one of your stages with three other men, one of whom your agent Parrish killed. The other two have since been apprehended trying to cross into Canada. One looks like he’ll die, shot down trying to run from border guards. The other is in one piece and talking his head off.”

  Nash sighed. “Well, that’s that theory gone. I thought maybe Larkin’s pards had set up the fight between Callan and Mitch Parrish.”

  The governor shook his head, unsmilingly. He had a brutish face, thick-lipped, with a large nose and flaring nostrils. Heavy, shaggy eyebrows seemed to hang precariously above his small, glittering eyes.

  “Wasn’t that big a job they pulled. If you check your records you’ll see they only got away with a couple of thousand.”

  “Recovered?”

  The governor’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I heard,” he said slowly.

  Nash frowned. The man’s tone made him tense. “Are you trying to tell me somethin’, sir?”

  “If I was, I’d say it right out loud,” the big man growled. “You want to see Larkin?”

  Nash thought about it, decided he would. The governor arranged for him to interview the outlaw in a small room down on the ground floor and Larkin proved to be no more than a kid, not yet twenty, and scared. He was gangling and awkward, nervous as he faced Nash across the deal table.

  The Wells Fargo man knew he was going to get nothing helpful out of Larkin. He tried a more friendly approach and the kid seemed slightly more at ease but still claimed he had never clapped eyes on Parrish before the man had arrested him. He was more worried about the coming trial than anything else.

  “How long you figure it’ll be now, Mr. Nash?”

  “Can’t say. They’ve got to find a judge who can fit it in on his circuit.”

  “What—what’s the usual sentence for armed hold-up? I—I never done nothin’ like this before.”

  “For a first offence, seeing as no one was badly hurt, you’ll likely get eight months to a year, I’d guess. But I’m only guessin’. Depends a lot on the judge.”

  Larkin nodded, mouth tight. “Yeah, I’ve heard some can be tough. But the fact that they got back my share of the loot ought to go in my favor, huh?”

  Nash stiffened. “Who got back your share?”

  “Why, Parrish, of course. Two hundred bucks. He said he’d turn it in and it’d help my case.” Larkin paled suddenly. “Judas, he did turn it in, didn’t he?”

  Nash was frowning down at the deal table, deep in thought. “Uh—I dunno. I didn’t check. I guess so, knowin’ Mitch Parrish.” He left the prison soon after and rode the five miles back to Virginia City. It was full dark by then. He was going to brace Race Hollander with the news but changed his mind. The sheriff hadn’t mentioned recovery of any loot and the governor of the jail seemed to be under the impression that none had been found. Maybe someone was working a racket here.

  Nash knew Mitch Parrish well enough to be sure he would have turned in any cash found on Larkin and his pard. But he didn’t know Sheriff Race Hollander well enough to swear he’d admit it now that Parrish was dead. Who would there be as a witness? Only Red Morgan, and they could have split the loot. No one would take much notice of Larkin, or any charge he made.

  Deep in thought, Nash picked up the key to his room at the Gold Nugget desk and went slowly up the stairs to his room. If he hadn’t had the whereabouts of the stage money on his mind, he might have been more cautious in entering his darkened room.

  But he opened the door and stepped inside and, while he was silhouetted against the lamplight in the hall, before he had closed the door, a gun blasted out of the darkness at him.

  The lead whipped past his cheek and, as he felt the air current and instinctively dropped to one knee, palmed up his own six-gun, Nash thought that the man wasn’t a professional or he wouldn’t have tried for a chancy headshot that way.

  He sprawled full-length on the floor as the killer’s gun blasted again and heard the bullet rip into the woodwork somewhere behind him. The flash of the gun had showed him a man crouched between the bed and the window of the room. Nash fired under the bed and was rewarded by a high-pitched scream followed by a clatter as the man sprawled. The killer sobbed in pain but apparently he still held his gun for he snapped another shot across the bed.

  Nash rolled, came up with gun blazing. He distinctly heard the smack of lead going into flesh and the man grunted, fell back. There came the unmistakable thud of a six-gun falling to the floor and the untidy sound of a body following it.

  Clay Nash waited, hearing running footsteps outside in the hall. Slowly, he stood up, gun still trained on the corner of the room where the killer had fallen. Then he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye and swung swiftly towards the window. A man’s silhouette showed there and he knew there was a second killer, crouched outside the window on the awning roof above the saloon porch.

  The man’s gun blazed and the window glass shattered as Nash flung himself aside. He felt the burn of lead across his upper left arm and the blow turned him so that he stumbled. The assassin’s gun bellowed again and more glass shattered. Nash fell against the wall, slid down to one knee and fired two fast shots. He clearly saw glass shards and wood splinters fly. And then the man’s shadow out on the awning seemed to leap into the air, hurtling backwards, arms and legs flailing. There was a thud and a clatter and Nash knew the body was skidding and sliding down the slope of the awning, across the shingles and plummeting down into the street.

  The Wells Fargo man spun as the door was kicked open and he caught a glimpse of a man with a gun in his hand. At the same time, lamplight glinted off the star on the man’s chest, an instant before the gun fired and the bullet slammed into the wall only inches from Nash’s head.

  “Hold it, goddamn it!” he bawled and he saw then that it was Red Morgan. The man held his fire as he started to throw down again and Nash stood slowly, face angry, hand holding to the wound in his upper arm that was oozing blood now. “You’re damn trigger-happy, Morgan!”

  “Here to keep the peace,” the deputy growled, putting up his gun but keeping his hand on the butt as he squinted at Nash. “What was it?”

  “Two gunnies layin’ for me. One down beside the bed. Du
nno if he’s dead or not.”

  “Judas!” Morgan exclaimed and his gun palmed up as he threw himself across the bed, barrel pointing down.

  “If he’s alive I want him kept that way!” Nash yelled, hurrying around the end of the bed.

  Morgan held his fire. “Looks dead to me,” he said, standing up again.

  “Light!” Nash bawled and someone in the crowd took down a lamp from the passage wall and held it aloft inside the room. Nash knelt beside the huddled form, kicking the man’s gun out of reach under the bed. There was blood on the killer’s face and his chest. Nash’s hand felt for a heartbeat and came out bloody as he turned his face towards the deputy.

  “He’s alive. But only just.” Nash raised his voice. “Someone get a doctor.”

  He looked out the window across the awning and saw the edge of a crowd beyond the guttering.

  “Hey, down there. That hombre cashed-in?”

  A man stood back and looked up at Nash in the hotel window.

  “Drilled through the middle of the face and the throat,’ the man called up. “He was dead before he fell off the awning. That broke his neck for good measure.”

  Nash called, “Anyone know him?”

  Another man appeared beside the first and Nash recognized the tall form of Sheriff Race Hollander. A sheen of light touched the short ridged scar on his right cheek as he looked up.

  “I know him, Nash. It’s Callan.”

  Nash stiffened and turned his attention back into the room as a doctor came through and knelt beside the wounded ranny. He began to work on him swiftly.

  “How much life left in him, Doc?” Nash asked.

  The medic didn’t look up. “Not much, thanks to whoever planted the lead in him. You’re not going to get much out of this hombre if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I am,” Nash said shortly.

  This time the sawbones turned and glanced up at the tall Wells Fargo agent. His pudgy face was angry, his thick fingers continuing to dab at the bullet wounds in the killer lying on the floor. Red Morgan stood silently by. He had cleared away the gawkers from the passage outside.