Clay Nash 15

by Brett Waring

  Sundance shrugged. “Guards gotta take their chances, that’s what they’re paid for. It’s a freight train so there’ll only be the engineers an’ the man in the caboose. We can blow the trestle so only the freight cars drop down. It’s been done before.”

  Larry looked horrified but Sundance wasn’t listening to any of his protests now as he outlined his plan briefly to the others who seemed mighty eager.

  “Only one thing wrong that I can see,” Emerson said in his quiet voice and, when the others looked towards him, added, “And that’s this: the whole thing was to be a secret shipment, done so no one’d know the express car was mixed in with a bunch of freight wagons. Soon as they find them papers missin’ from the Signal depot safe, they’ll change the plan, send the gold some other way, at some other time. An’ we can’t go blowin’ up every damn’ train that heads out this way.”

  They fell silent at Emerson’s words, knowing he spoke the truth. Waco swore as he saw the opportunity of a lifetime slipping away. Idaho took out one of his guns and began to clean it; he spoke to Mitch Emerson without looking at the man.

  “Why in hell can’t you just shut up?”

  Emerson shrugged. “Won’t change things, Idaho. Wells Fargo won’t ship that gold when they realize these papers were stolen along with the cash. They ain’t stupid you know!”

  Sundance turned slowly to look at Larry.

  “It was you got us this bonus, kid, scoopin’ it up with the cash.”

  Larry flushed. “I—I didn’t have time to sort it out from the money—’Specially after Idaho yelled that the sheriff was comin’—”

  Sundance nodded and flicked his gaze to the other remaining books and papers that had been taken from the safe. He smiled suddenly and dropped his arm about Larry’s thin shoulders again, drawing the apprehensive kid in close.

  “You know, Larry, Mitch is right: once Jim Hume knows these papers were stole, he’s gonna change the plans for shippin’ that gold completely.”

  Larry frowned at Sundance, puzzled. “Ye-eahh, I guess so. Be pointless you tryin’ to figure out any new plan, till you’re sure.”

  Sundance rocked the youth, smiling tightly. “Right again, kid. You use your brain. I like that. An’ I use mine, too. So I’ve seen a way out of this mess.”

  The others stared at him in disbelief but Sundance continued to smile into Larry’s puzzled face.

  “Sure, it’s simple. You know why there was no posse chased us?”

  “Er—the fire, I guess. They stopped to put it out.”

  “Sure. They had to save the town, right? They’re mighty touchy about fire, even in rain as heavy as this. They’d rather let us get away with a few bucks than risk the fire wipin them out.”

  “Yeah, but what’s that got to do with ...?”

  “Point is, all that they’d’ve concentrated on was puttin’ the fire out. And besides not many would’ve known about the gold shipment anyway. So, who would bother searchin’ through the rubble for a letter no one knows exists?”

  His grin widened and there was silence as the group waited for him to continue. Sundance squeezed Larry’s shoulders tightly, thrust the papers under the kid’s nose.

  “So you got time to take these papers an’ the rest of them ledgers back an’ leave ’em in the safe, just like they was never taken at all. Savvy?”

  Clay Nash knew something was wrong as soon as he rode into Signal from out of the timbered hills. The rain slanted down, maybe not quite so hard as earlier, and this alone should have kept most folk indoors.

  But even at this early hour there were folk crowding around the law office in the middle of the business block. He saw the saddled horses and the bedrolls and bulging saddlebags. Everything added up to a posse—and with enough provisions for a long hunt.

  Nash could smell the rank odor of wood smoke. He ran his gaze down the lines of buildings and then stiffened when it came to rest on the Wells Fargo agency at the far end of the street.

  The front wall was blackened, the windows smashed, the door boarded over. Part of the roof had been burned away. Nash dismounted swiftly and pushed through the dozen or so men crowded into the small law office, ignoring their protests. He shoved through to the front and saw the sheriff seated at his desk, one arm in a sling, a bandage around his head. The man glared at Nash’s dripping, slicker-clad figure.

  “Who the hell’re you?” the sheriff demanded.

  “Clay Nash, of Wells Fargo. What’s happened here?”

  There were murmurings at Nash’s mention of Wells Fargo and the sheriff slowly straightened in his chair, grunting and grimacing:

  “Got some identification, Nash?”

  Nash unbuttoned his slicker and reached into his shirt pocket for an oilskin wallet. He took out some papers and handed them to the lawman who squinted at them, turning so that the watery sunlight washed over them. He grunted again, then handed them back.

  “Seem genuine enough. Name’s Lace Gentry, been sheriff of Signal these past three months. Keep a tight town, never have no trouble. I recognize any hard hombres and I run ’em out ...”

  “You’ll bust that good arm of yours, pattin’ yourself on the back that way,” cut in Nash impatiently. “I want to know what happened to the agency and our man, Will Potter?”

  Gentry glared coldly at Nash for a moment before answering.

  “Potter’s dead. Agency was raided last night, partly burned down, but we managed to get the fire out. We got a pretty good bucket-brigade in this town. Have to with all the buildings being timber and all them trees surrounding us ...”

  “And while you were putting out the fire, the raiders high-tailed it for the hills, right?” Nash asked.

  The sheriff flushed. “Savin’ this town was more important than savin’ your company a few bucks they could well afford, Nash!”

  The townsmen murmured agreement and, encouraged, the lawman nodded again, emphatically, smugly:

  “My first concern was for our town.”

  “Okay, so you got a civic-minded sheriff here, it seems, makin’ sure he’s re-elected when the time comes,” Nash said, unimpressed. “Can’t say I blame you for fightin’ the fire and ignoring the raiders. But Will Potter was a family man as I recall and now he’s dead. Something’s got to be done about that.”

  Gentry swept an arm around the packed room. “You can see we was about to do somethin’,” he said sourly. “I’ve organized a posse.”

  Nash nodded. “Waste of time trying to pick up tracks after all that rain we had last night. Save yourselves some hard ridin’ and discomfort and stay here. Be no sign left now.” He raked his hard gaze around the room. “Anyone get a good look at any of the raiders? And how many were there?”

  “Counted six or seven,” a townsman two rows back volunteered. “We nailed one.”

  Nash’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Gentry. “Recognize him?”

  The man shook his head. “Face was blowed off. But I reckon one was Waco Bright, that Texas killer. ’Fact, I figure he’s the sonuver shot me. Others were all slicker-clad. One might’ve had long yaller hair but it was kinda hard to tell. There was a lotta rain and too much shootin’ for most of us.”

  Nash pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Long yellow hair. And the place set fire so as to throw you ... Sounds like a feller I know. He’s pulled the same kinda trick before in these mountain towns that are scared spitless at the thought of fire. Name of Sundance Harmer.”

  “Hell! Didn’t know his bunch was operatin’ in this neck of the woods!” breathed the lawman.

  Nash shrugged. “Only saying it could be. Know what was taken?”

  The sheriff seemed uneasy. “Well, no. We ain’t been out there this mornin’ an’ we didn’t look last night after puttin’ out the fire and draggin’ Will’s body out. But I wired your head office, Nash. Jim Hume. Told him there’d been a robbery.”

  Nash grunted. He would send a wire himself later, after he had determined just what had been taken. Likely, as he was o
n the spot, Hume would want him to investigate, especially if their old enemy Sundance Harmer was involved.

  “What’d they do? Ride in with blazin’ guns and shoot the place apart?” he asked.

  “Hell, no. I was on my patrol before turnin’ in for the night. All was quiet. There were lights burnin’ in the agency as usual ’cause stages roll in all hours of the day an’ night—but I guess you know that. Anyways, like I said, all seemed quiet, an’ I was just headin’ back for home.” He pointed a finger upwards to the ceiling, indicating his living quarters above the law offices and jail. “Then I heard some gunfire. It was sort of muffled, like it came from inside, but I got the general direction an’ knew it had to come from the agency. I had my rifle with me so I pounded along just in time to see ’em bustin’ out. Some of the fellers here came out of the saloon an’ we all traded lead ...”

  “They didn’t blow the safe?” Nash asked.

  “Couldn’t have. Anyways, when we picked up Will Potter his keys were on a chain dangling from his pocket. My guess is they forced him to use ’em to open the safe. Looked like he may’ve made a grab for a sneak gun he musta kept handy. A short-barreled Colt lay near his body. Wouldn’t expect it to belong to outlaws.”

  Nash’s face was grim as he nodded. It was becoming standard procedure for Wells Fargo agents to keep a small gun of some kind stowed somewhere. Others had been forced to open up at gunpoint and more than one had saved the company money by using the small hideaway firearm.

  “Well, I knew Will Potter and it’s my guess you’re right about him tryin’ to use a gun he had hidden in the safe when they ...”

  Clay Nash broke off as there was some sort of commotion outside, men muttering and shouting, those pressing into the office suddenly moving aside, making way for someone.

  It was a lanky man wearing a deputy’s star and holding a rifle in one hand. In the other, he had a skinny youth by the arm, dragging the frightened kid inside and flinging him forward so hard that he fell to his knees and skidded across to crash into the sheriff’s desk. He hung there, the breath knocked out of him, muddy and wet, eyes bulging, huddled almost at Gentry’s feet.

  The others looked quizzically at the deputy who had brought him in.

  “What’s this, Hank?” asked the sheriff.

  Hank pointed at the kid with his rifle. “Found him prowlin’ around the agency. Near the safe. He tried to run when I yelled out but when I threatened to shoot he stopped. I clipped him a good ’un under the ear and dragged ’im back here.”

  “Why?” demanded the sheriff, deadpan. “Figure he was one of the raiders?”

  Then he guffawed and most of the townsmen laughed, staring at the frightened kid. The deputy flushed.

  “You told me to watch the agency an’ keep everyone away,” he said, sounding hurt. “I done just that. ’Sides, the kid’s a stranger. He don’t belong here in town.”

  Larry Holbrook was the center of attention now, and he seemed to cringe back against the desk. Gentry nudged him roughly with his boot, pushing him off balance, out into the center of the cleared floor space.

  “What have you got to say, young feller?” he snapped.

  “I—I—Uh—Nothin’,” stammered Larry, shivering, whether from the cold or fear Nash wasn’t quite certain.

  “Another couple belts across the mouth’ll have him talkin’!” snarled the deputy and he stepped forward, one hand lifted to deliver a back-handed blow.

  Nash caught the man’s wrist, held it easily and twisted a little, shoving the angry deputy back. “Stay out of this. You’ve done your part. More than you needed to.”

  “Hell with you!” the deputy growled. “Who you thi...”

  “He’s Wells Fargo, Hank,” cut in the sheriff.

  Hank glowered, subsiding. “Still don’t give him the right to ...”

  Nash turned away from the deputy and reached down, offering the drenched kid a hand. Larry hesitated, then took it and Nash helped him to his feet.

  “You’re a sorry-lookin’ mess, young’un if ever I saw one. What’s your name?”

  “Larry.”

  “Okay, Larry, what were you doing hanging around the agency? You know what happened there last night?”

  The kid ran a tongue over his lips, nodding vigorously. “Sure. It’s why I figured to do some scavengin’. I figured it’d be all right, on a burned-out place. I was just lookin’ for some place to crawl in outta the rain an’—an’ whatever else I could use. I didn’ know I was doin’ wrong, mister.”

  “How old are you, boy?” growled Gentry suddenly.

  “Sixteen or thereabouts, I guess.”

  “Hell, that’s old enough for you to know you just don’t do them kinds of things! You know a place like that Wells Fargo agency still belongs to someone an’ if you take somethin’ from it it’s stealin’.” Gentry leaned forward in his chair, shook a stiffened forefinger under Larry’s nose. “An’ I locks up thieves in this town! Hear?”

  The kid cringed back.

  “He had a gunnysack with him,” said the deputy.

  Nash frowned at the man. “Anything in it?”

  Hank scowled and spoke to Gentry, ignoring Nash. “Had somethin’ in it. I looked, but it was just a couple books’ an some papers. Guess I’d arrived just as he started cleanin’ out the safe.”

  “What’d you do with the sack?” demanded Nash.

  Hank looked at him directly this time. “Shoved the lot into the safe, sack an’ all.”

  Nash nodded, turned his attention to Larry. “What would you want with Wells Fargo documents, Larry?”

  Larry hung his head. “Well, I—I was actually lookin’ to see if there might’ve been a—a little money that’d been overlooked. Then I seen those books just lyin’ there in the open safe an’ I figured the pages’d make a good fire starter. I figured they weren’t of no use if they was just left lyin’ there like that to get wet, mister! Honest! I didn’t mean to steal. Not from Wells Fargo or anyone else.”

  “Goddam liar!” spat Hank.

  Nash held up a hand, staring at the kid. Larry was hang-dog and shaking, drenched, looking like a drowned rat. Nash felt sorry for him, especially when he saw the bony shoulders, the skinny arms and the scrawny legs. He saw here a kid who had had a tough enough time in life already without being hassled anew over something that really didn’t matter. He wasn’t a fool: he knew the kid had been looking for money, all right, and the kid had known he must have figured that. It was why Larry had confessed. So that made neither of them fools, Nash thought with an inward smile.

  What he didn’t know was that Larry hadn’t had time to replace the ledgers and the papers concerning the special gold train before Hank had grabbed him. When the deputy had assumed that the books had been taken out of the safe and put in the gunnysack, Larry hadn’t denied it: it had seemed a good enough answer to his problem. Now all he wanted to do was get away from these hard-eyed lawmen and back to the cave where Sundance waited.

  The outlaws’ company seemed preferable to these hombres, even though Nash was a Wells Fargo man.

  He was the one Larry had to work on and he knew it. Not only did Nash obviously carry some authority, but the man seemed compassionate.

  “Honest, mister!” Larry pleaded, looking soulfully into Nash’s face. “I didn’ mean to steal. I—I’m tryin’ to make my way to Julesburg. My ma’s dyin’ there in hospital an’ I want to see her. I—I went to the agency to—to try an’ stow away on the next stage out, hanging underneath, you know?”

  Nash knew. Quite often Indians and runaway kids like this one before him or even drifters without the price of a ticket, managed to crawl up into the space between the rear axle and the body of the coach, especially on the older-model Concords that had a wooden “apron’ running all round below the cabins. It acted as a shield and kept them from being discovered, at least right away. Not many completed their full journey: the dust was too choking. Sometimes a spring went and they had an arm or hand crushed. Some
simply weren’t strong enough to hold on and dropped off to be mangled under the iron-tired rear wheels.

  Only a desperate man would even think of stowing away under a stage.

  “All right, kid,” Nash said finally. He glanced at the sheriff. “I got enough say-so here to make sure the kid’s not charged with stealin’. Let it ride.” He turned to the deputy. “You did your job, no argument with that.”

  “Did it for nothin’, seems like,” growled the deputy. “Dang kid’s gonna get away with stealin’.”

  “Nothin’ appears taken,” Nash said equably. “You can’t be so hard-up you gotta press for charges to be laid agin him, Hank.”

  Hank scowled, muttered something and then hefted his rifle, turning to shove his way back through the crowd.

  “Best get back on the job,” he said surlily.

  “What you want to do about these hombres who raided your agency, Nash?” the sheriff said and the Wells Fargo man noticed that Larry looked at him sharply when the lawman mentioned his name.

  “I’ll get in touch with Hume. Like I said, there’d be no tracks after this rain. I’ll try to find out what was taken, first.”

  “And what about the kid? There’s nothing much I can hold him on.”

  Nash studied Larry. “I’ll take him with me.”

  He nodded to Gentry and the townsmen and they opened their ranks to allow Nash through, closely followed by the disheveled youth. Out on the porch, Nash thumbed back his hat, looking at the rain still pouring down, the cascades coming off the sloping roofs and making a shallow, muddy river out of Main Street. He gestured towards the rail siding.

  “Might be easier to go to Julesburg by train. I’ll have to find a relief agent and I reckon Wells Fargo won’t be operatin’ from here for a day or so.”

  “I—I’ll find my way somehow, Mr. Nash. I—thank you for not pressin’ charges, an’ I’m sorry for causin’ any trouble.”

  Nash squinted at him. “You’re kinda servile, kid. Well-mannered, but sort of afraid of your elders. Where you from?”

  “Montana. Ain’t long buried my pa up there.”

  “But your ma’s in a Julesburg Hospital?”