Clay Nash 14

by Brett Waring

Hollander didn’t like it but he covered the flash of anger that made the scar on his face suddenly livid and then shrugged, waving out the match.

  “Won’t take long.”

  “Good,” Nash said, pouring himself another whisky and tossing it down.

  “Hear you quit Wells Fargo.”

  Nash did no more than grunt. He knew by now it would be all over town, highly embellished by the clerks in the outer office who had overheard his argument with Jim Hume.

  “Means you’re on your own now.”

  Nash lifted his glass in salute to himself. “A free agent.”

  “Without Wells Fargo to back you,” added the sheriff. He leaned forward on his hands on the edge of the table. “Which is what I want to talk to you about. You’ve got yourself quite a reputation, Nash.”

  The ex-agent said nothing, merely played with the empty shot glass, rolling it between his fingers, seeming to find some fascination in the patterns of the cut glass. Either that, or he simply wasn’t listening to what the lawman was saying. Certainly his attitude would do nothing to earn him any friends.

  “Over the years you’ve gunned down a lot of men, put a lot more behind bars. Like a town marshal or sheriff you’ve built yourself up quite a heap of enemies.” Hollander reached out and slapped the glass from Nash’s hands. The man snapped his head around and up, tense, alert, eyes narrowing. But all the lawman had wanted was to get his attention and now he had it and said, “Now you don’t have Wells Fargo behind you. Those enemies will be crawling out from under every rock and comin’ after you. You’re on your own now mister, and you’re gonna attract trouble like honey draws flies.”

  “I’m used to trouble,” Nash growled.

  Hollander shook his head slowly. “Not like you’re gonna have. I know what I’m talkin’ about. I turned in my badge in Hays City once, had some loco idea of settlin’ down on a ranch. I hadn’t ridden three miles out of town before two hombres tried to bushwhack me. By the time I’d gotten ten miles out, I’d had to kill four men and I had two slugs in me. I hid out, got better. I never did make it to that ranch. There were others waitin’. I was dodgin’ lead night and day for a month before I woke up it was because I had no backin’, no law behind me anymore. A man’ll think a long, long time before he goes up against a badge toter for he knows if he kills his man, he’ll be hunted down, for years if necessary, by other badge toters. Most fellers wait until the man turns in his badge, then they come after him.”

  Nash looked hard at Hollander. “So?”

  “You’re in the same position. There’s gonna be a lot of lead comin’ your way, Nash.”

  “And you don’t want it to be in your town, right?”

  Race Hollander smiled crookedly. “Not as drunk as you look.” Nash glanced past Hollander’s shoulder and saw big Red Morgan standing by the end of the bar, carrying a double-barreled Greener shotgun, watching his table with a deadpan expression. Nash nodded.

  “I’m sober enough to know you aim to make your threats stick.”

  Hollander shrugged. “Morgan’s just a back-up. I know you’re still riled after your fight with Hume. I know you’re just itchin’ to cram your fist into the middle of my face and maybe I’m tempted to mix it with you, but right now I don’t need to be busted up. Aw, I figure I can take you, but it wouldn’t be easy and I’d get hurt before I did it. Don’t see the point when Red’s shotgun can get you movin’ on just as quick.”

  “S’pose I don’t want to go?” Nash asked quietly.

  Hollander’s crooked smile widened. “You ain’t that stupid.”

  Nash sighed and nodded slowly. “I was aimin’ to pull out come mornin’, anyway.”

  “You got till sunup. And I’ll be standing on the porch of the law office watching for you to ride out, Nash. Me and Red. And he’ll have a friend named Greener with him.”

  Nash said nothing and the sheriff started to swing away, but turned back, looking slightly puzzled.

  “How come you’re ready to pull out? I figured you’d be wantin’ to stick around to help Lucy Parrish.”

  Nash shrugged. “Nothin’ more I can do for her. The company’ll pass on Mitch’s compensation in due course. I can’t find any other reason for him being killed than that he got caught four-flushin’ at cards.”

  Hollander nodded soberly. “Yeah. It looked that way to me, too. Guess that feller Callan must’ve heard about you workin’ on the case, figured you’d come after him, and tried to get in first by settin’ up that bushwhack in your hotel room.”

  “Yeah. Looks that way.”

  Still Hollander hesitated. “Listen, heard they need a deputy sheriff down at Fort Contender. Might suit you.”

  “I’ll find my own job,” Nash growled, and the sheriff shrugged.

  “Suit yourself. Just be out of Virginia City by sunrise.”

  He turned away, signaling to Morgan, who let the sheriff pass first before turning and following him out of the crowded room. Nash poured another glass of whisky, scowled into it, and tossed it down.

  He stared moodily at the wet, scarred table top, a dangerous man, alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter Five – Bad News

  It was late at night, but Nash figured he couldn’t leave town without saying goodbye to Lucy Parrish.

  He quit the saloon by the rear door and went to the bench near the outhouse and pumped a dish full of water. He sluiced it into his face and around the back of his neck, gasping at its chill, coughing away the smoke and thick air of the saloon bar.

  Nash used a kerchief to wipe off his face and neck, adjusted his hat and set his gun comfortably on his hip. Then he walked up the hill to Lucy’s house and was relieved to see a light still showing at the parlor window.

  She answered his knock almost at once and stepped back in surprise when she saw him.

  “Why, Clay! I was expecting—” She broke off and gave a nervous laugh. “You startled me.”

  “Looks like you were expectin’ someone else. I don’t aim to intrude, Lucy, but—”

  “Why—no, Clay, actually I was just about to retire. I’ve been up late going through Mitch’s desk. But come in. Don’t stand out here on the stoop.”

  Nash doffed his hat and followed her into the parlor. The room was just as it had been, though he could smell furniture oil and noticed that it had all been rubbed up and there wasn’t a speck of dust in the room anywhere. Nash figured she had been deliberately keeping herself busy. Even Mitch’s old roll top Cutler gleamed with oil; it was all closed up.

  “I won’t keep you, Lucy. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. If anything, some of the tension went out of her.

  “I—I’m sorry you lost your job, Clay. I feel somehow responsible. I mean, it was because of Mitch and ...”

  “No. It was my own fault. I got riled. I’ve calmed down some since. Looks like Mitch was just killed over cards. I’ve turned in my badge for nothing.”

  “Oh, Clay!”

  “Like I said, my own fault.”

  “But surely Jim Hume would ...”

  He shook his head. “Wouldn’t ask him. No, I’ve been too long at it, Lucy. When a man gets edgy like I did, it’s time for a long, long break.”

  “Where will you go? What will you do?”

  “Well, I’m a Texan born and bred. I’ve got a little money. I once owned a small slice of Texas. Figure I might go back and buy a little spread and lead a quieter life for a spell.”

  She smiled as she stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. “I’m glad, Clay. You’ve worked hard for Wells Fargo. It’s a shame you had to break with them the way you did, but you’ve had enough danger and you’re wise to get out before it’s too late.” She sobered abruptly and added slowly, “Mitch left it too late.”

  Nash took her shoulders in his big hands and looked down into her sad face.

  “I hope things work out for you, Lucy.” He paused, then added, “I guess there was nothin’ amongst Mitch’s pap
ers ...?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing, Clay. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. Then there’s nothing to hold me here. But if you want me, you just call. Write care of General Delivery, Amarillo, Texas. If you need anything at all, Lucy, write. Please.”

  Lucy hugged him impulsively and then reached up and her lips brushed his. Her hands gripped him tightly, and there was a catch in her voice as she said,

  “Good, luck, Clay. And thank you. For everything.”

  At the front door, he jammed his hat on his head, looked down at her and smiled.

  “Adios, Lucy.”

  She lifted a small hand in reply and he swung away along the walk and then down the hill back towards town. Lucy watched him go and then gasped and gave a start as a man stepped out of the shadows of a bush beside the door.

  “Oh, my God! You frightened the life out of me!” Her hand went to her pounding heart. “I thought it was you earlier but it was Nash telling me goodbye.”

  “He’s quitting by sunup,” the tall man answered. “Guess I better come in.”

  Lucy stepped aside and smiled faintly. “Yes, please do, Sheriff.”

  Race Hollander ducked his head and stepped inside. Lucy closed the door after him and led him into the parlor.

  Mid-afternoon of the second day out of Virginia City found Clay Nash camped in a lonely area off the main trail south. There were purple hills ahead and he had decided to camp down here on the flats and tackle them next morning.

  He was forking a big-chested black horse as he rode into his camp area after hunting fresh meat. A brace of jackrabbits dangled from his saddle horn. He dismounted, skinned and gutted them, then spitted the carcasses and hung them over the fire he got going. He waited for the heat to brown the juicy meat, turning the sticks constantly.

  When they were nearly ready, he set his coffee pot at the edge of the fire and took out the remaining hunk of cornpone he had brought from Virginia City. He set this on a flat rock and sliced off two sections with his hunting knife, wishing he had some sowbelly fat to fry them in or at least spread on the dry and crumbling surface to make it a little more palatable.

  The rabbits were about ready and as he reached to release the spit-stick, a rifle suddenly crashed and his coffee pot leapt into the air violently, spraying him with hot coffee. Nash threw himself backwards, clawing at his face as the scalding liquid burned his flesh. Ashes and burning twigs erupted from the fire. The spit carrying the rabbits collapsed into the embers and he smelled charred meat even as he rolled over and over across the campsite towards the rocks where his rifle rested.

  The hidden gun cracked again and Nash’s Winchester leapt into the air, spinning out of reach. He didn’t go after it. If the man had the camp so well covered, Nash figured the best thing to do was to get under cover, fast. He gathered himself and hurled his body over some low rocks, hitting hard, rolling, the breath knocked out of him, head ringing. He heard two fast shots ricochet from the boulders above him.

  Spitting dust and grit, his Colt in his hand now, the hammer back, Clay Nash flipped over onto his belly and, using elbows and knees worked his way in close to the boulders as another bullet whined away only a foot from him. Whoever was shooting was in a good position to rake the camp, he thought.

  He swept off his hat and flung it back into the camp proper. The rifle cracked instantly and the hat spun wildly as lead punched through the crown. Nash tightened his lips. He was up against a marksman, but a fairly jumpy one. The man must be on edge to start shooting at the first thing that moved, like the hat, but he was deadly in his aim, too. A dangerous combination, though not quite as dangerous as a cool-headed man who selected his targets.

  Trouble was, he had Nash pinned down neatly.

  The only protection the ex-Wells Fargo man had were the sandstone rocks. Three of them, jumbled together, barely two feet at the highest point. Which meant he had to lie prone, he couldn’t thrust to his knees to shoot at the killer. And as yet Nash hadn’t pinned down the man’s position. There was a fairly strong breeze blowing and any gunsmoke from the man’s shooting was whipped away swiftly; there was no tell-tale pall hanging above the ambusher’s position.

  There was only one way to find out where he was and that was to give him something to shoot at. Nash dived across the wedge-shaped gap between the forks. As his legs cleared the gap, the rifle whiplashed and a bullet sprayed his shoulders with rock dust. He scrabbled back behind the rocks as his dive had carried him past the end and another shot slammed into the earth inches from his face as he huddled close. He had seen the spurt of gunsmoke, all right, up on the ridge he had crossed before coming down here to make camp.

  The killer had the advantage; he had a rifle while Nash only had his six-gun now and the ridge was out of range.

  Nash had two choices. He could stay where he was but that would gain him nothing; the man up there would simply wait him out, knowing he had the advantage of range. Or he could move and get within six-gun range. The latter seemed suicidal, as there was very little cover between the camp and the killer on the ridge.

  The base of the ridge had plenty of boulders and some brush and a man, once there, could work his way around and be well within six-gun range. Provided he didn’t get picked off in the meantime by the man up on the slope.

  Nash’s horse was over to the left, ground-hitched now, head high, ears up. There was a five yard stretch between it and Nash’s position. He didn’t hesitate; he had summed-up the deal and knew he had to make the move if he wanted to live. He was on his feet in an instant, not worrying about the man with the rifle, thinking of nothing else but covering that five yards as fast as possible and getting to the horse. The rifle began blazing and Nash zigzagged, realizing he was increasing his time out in the open but knowing it would be suicide to keep to a straight line.

  Bullets spurted dust all around his pounding feet. He propped, jumped back the other way and lead erupted dirt and stones where he had been standing an instant before. Nash flung himself sideways, somersaulted and came up facing the way he wanted, within feet of the horse which was spooked now and pulling at the reins. He hurled himself bodily forward, lunging for the reins, getting them in his grasp and hauling himself erect with lead whining around him.

  Then the shooting abruptly ceased and he knew the rifleman was reloading. He figured he had a few brief seconds’ respite, threw himself across the saddle without making any attempt to get a leg across the horse’s neck. It whinnied and rolled its eyes as it leapt forward, Nash hanging over its back, head on one side, legs on the other.

  The animal thundered across the camp in the general direction of the slope of the ridge and it was halfway there when the rifle began cracking again. Nash heard the buzzing sound of one bullet, saw dust kick up from another. He was jolted by the motion of the horse and abruptly thrust back with his arms, hurling himself away from the animal’s racing body, wrenching around in mid-air so that he faced forward, the same way as the horse.

  His legs were pumping madly as his boots hit the ground but he wasn’t going fast enough and spilled, falling and rolling head over heels. He didn’t hear the gun or see where the bullets went. His head was too full of ringing, grunting sounds and the world spun crazily, tilting and standing on end, falling, spinning. Dust choked him., Gravel tore at his knees and arms and his head thudded against something unyielding.

  But when he stopped skidding, he found himself under brush at the foot of the slope. Breathless, a trickle of blood oozing down into one eye, his bullet-grazed arm also bleeding again, Clay Nash gathered his legs under him and, moving by pure instinct, hurled himself for the shelter of some rocks as a furious volley from the rifle reduced the brush to bare twigs and splintered stump. He figured he dared not stop now. The horse had run off to the right, veering away from the ridge. Nash dodged between the big rocks. Bullets ricocheted and then there was silence again.

  The killer was reloading, likely moving position, too, now that Nash was within six-g
un range. The ex-agent worked his way swiftly from rock to rock, going around and upwards. He dodged across open spaces, crawled under brush, climbing all the time.

  He paused, trying to control his breathing so the sound wouldn’t give him away, hand aching from where it gripped the Colt. Through the roaring blood in his head he heard a sound behind him and, even as he turned, gun coming up, he moved to one side.

  The two guns blazed simultaneously and Nash winced as stone chips flicked across his cheek. Through the pall of gunsmoke he saw a man staggering out of rock cover, trying to get his rifle up into firing position. On one knee, Nash fired twice more and the killer threw up his arms and was flung back violently. The rifle clattered to the rocks and the man’s body arched backwards to jam in the crevice between two boulders. His legs kicked wildly at first but slowed down and Nash could hear the grunting and slobbering of a lung-shot man.

  Straightening, he went forward, scooped up the rifle and, still holding his cocked six-gun, climbed around the rocks to look at the wounded man’s face. The killer’s head was down and there was blood running from his nose and mouth. Nash grabbed his shoulders and pulled him out of the crevice, propping him in a sitting position against another boulder. He twisted his fingers in the man’s hair and yanked his head back so that he could see the features.

  “Lex Skinner! Well, I figured you’d still be on the Yuma rock pile.”

  The man was badly hit in the chest and lower right side. He was bleeding profusely and air bubbled through the holes in his chest, the wounds frothing pink. One lung at least was gone, Nash figured.

  The killer turned pain filled eyes in Nash’s direction and tried to gather a mouthful of blood to spit at him, but a fit of coughing caught him, wracked him, left him wheezing and weak and afraid.

  “Settlin’ old scores, Skinner?” Nash asked.

  Skinner nodded gently, one blood-flecked hand reaching for Nash’s sleeve, gripping feebly. His mouth worked but no words formed.

  “Didn’t take long for the word to spread that I’d quit Wells Fargo, huh?” Suddenly, Nash snapped his fingers. “Say! Your brother is in the Virginia City lockup, right now, awaitin’ trial. Mitch Parrish put him there. You settle with him too, send Callan to nail him?”