Clay Nash 6

by Brett Waring

  “Pour some water over him,” he ordered hoarsely and the barkeep brought the slop bowl from under the bar and dashed it into Somers’ face. The man groaned and sat up, spluttering. Nash grabbed his hair and savagely yanked his head back. He thrust his gun barrel between the man’s staring eyes.

  “Talk!” he snapped.

  Somers was scared. He was shaking badly and croaked in his effort to speak. His mouth worked and he kept licking at his split lips. Then he nodded jerkily and Nash eased up on the pressure a little.

  “Only know that Matt Hansen runs the Triangle H,” Somers told him hoarsely, his words barely audible. “Somewheres back of Signal. That’s all I know.”

  Nash looked down at him steadily, coldly. “It better be, mister.”

  He shoved Somers’ head away angrily and the man sagged down, groaning sickly, sucking down deep breaths. Nash holstered his gun and mopped at his bleeding face with his kerchief. He saw Marshal Lew Tanner just pushing through to the front of the crowd. The lawman looked first at Nash, then at the battered Somers, then back to Nash.

  The Wells Fargo man put a chill gaze on him. “You gonna run me out?” There was almost an invitation in his voice.

  Lew Tanner held his gaze a moment longer, then looked away, shaking his head briefly. “I reckon you’ll be leavin’ right soon anyway,” he muttered.

  “When I’m ready,” Nash told him.

  Tanner nodded. “Sure.”

  Nash waited a little longer but Tanner said nothing more, just stood over the moaning Somers and finally nudged the battered man with a boot toe.

  “You be gone by sundown, Somers,” the marshal said, then hurried out through the crowd.

  Four – Trail to Flatrock

  Link Somers left Tucson before sundown. Wells Fargo still owed him something: part of every employee’s contract stated that upon termination of employment, the company would pay the return fare to the place of hiring. It applied in some cases of firing, but was meant mainly to cover employees who left while in the field; it was an inducement at hiring time and the company stood by their contracts.

  Somers’ case, of course, was kind of different; not only was he fired by the Wells Fargo agent, but he had been fired for failure to do his duty. The company was under no legal obligation to return him to his place of hiring—in his case, Tombstone—but Enright figured it would be a small price to pay just to see the back of Link Somers. He argued at first when Somers turned up, face swollen and battered after his fight with Nash, but then Enright reckoned there was going to be a space free on the Tombstone coach anyway, so Somers might just as well have it.

  It suited the ex-shotgun guard; he could have easily paid his fare or hired a horse, but he was bitter against Wells Fargo and intended to squeeze them for every dime that he could. It gave him some sort of satisfaction to have such a petty victory and Enright figured it was no skin off the company’s nose, anyway.

  So, when the afternoon stage pulled out of Tucson, Link Somers rode it as a passenger. But he had no intention of going clear to Tombstone. No sir. No one beat him up the way that Clay Nash had done and got away with it. He aimed to square things with Nash, but in his own way and in his own time.

  And entirely without any danger to himself. That was why he was aiming to leave the stage at Flatrock.

  ~*~

  Nash had been too impatient to wait for the stage to Tombstone and had bought a horse and quit Tucson just after noon. He wanted to be more independent than being tied down to stage timetables for what he had in mind. Signal seemed to be a good place for the Triangle H to be—or in the general area. It had been one of the towns that he had estimated to be within a day or so’s ride of Flatrock where the money and stolen papers had been posted.

  Also, he figured that Somers hadn’t been in any frame of mind for lying when he had told Nash about Matt Hansen. Maybe there was more the man could have told him, but he had a name and a destination now and, to a man like Nash, that was more than enough to see him further along this trail to a gunsmoke reckoning.

  But, before he went on to Signal and sought out the Triangle H, Nash figured there was something for him to do in Flatrock.

  He arrived early the next morning after camping out in the hills for the night. The place was well named, set on a huge flat ridge of rock that commanded a view across the plains beyond for many miles. The air was chill and he knew the place was higher than he had figured. The town itself was weathered and the buildings huddled tightly together around a few main streets as if afraid they might fall off the ridge if they spread out. But it was a compact place, centered around a small plaza, and Nash put the horse into the livery with instructions for feed and grooming, then went across to the general store that also had a ‘Post Office’ sign on the awning.

  The place was cluttered and smelled like all frontier general stores with a mixture of cheese, neat’s-foot oil, leather, brass, gun oil, dress materials, and maybe some exotic spices that had found their way out West, stale and weakened now but still pungent. The storekeeper was a fat, smiling bald man who greeted him with a boisterous ‘good morning!’

  “And what can I do for you, stranger? Like a cracker while you’re jawin’? Help yourself, that’s what the barrel’s for.”

  Nash nodded and took a couple of crumbling soda crackers from the barrel, automatically tapping them against the counter edge to dislodge any weevils or ants before biting into them. “I’m interested in the post office section,” he said.

  The fat man spread his big, pudgy hands. “Well, I’m post master as well as justice of the peace, storekeeper, undertaker and sawbones in this town, so you come to the right place, mister. You want to send a letter or collect one?”

  “Want to find out if you recollect someone sendin’ a bundle to the Wells Fargo agent up in Tucson.”

  The fat man’s smile sagged a little at the edges. “Well, mebbe I can help you and mebbe I can’t. First I’d have to know who you are and why you’re askin’.”

  Nash took out his identification papers and handed them across. The storekeeper took a pair of wire-framed, half moon spectacles from his apron pocket and put them on. He read slowly and glanced at Nash over the top of the spectacles. He grunted and handed the papers back to Nash, took off his glasses and folded them but did not put them back in his apron pocket.

  “Well, reckon that answers both questions. You’re investigating the hold-up where that Mexican died, huh?”

  Nash nodded.

  “His daughter lives in town, you know that?”

  Nash nodded again. “Was going to ask you her address.”

  “Last cabin over on Yucca Street, top right hand corner of the plaza.”

  “Fine. Now you know the package I mean. You remember who mailed it?”

  The fat man didn’t look so happy now. He fidgeted with the wire wings of his glasses and started cleaning the lenses on his apron. “Well, the way I see it, Mr. Nash, no harm was meant. It was a drunken prank that sort of got out of hand.”

  “And killed one man, injured six others, wrecked a stagecoach. Yeah, I’d be inclined to agree that it did get out of hand, kind of.”

  The fat man nodded. “Sure, sure, I know ... Most unfortunate the whole thing. But it was just one of those things. No harm was meant.”

  “You already said that,” Nash told him curtly and the storekeeper flushed.

  “Yeah. Well, what I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t like to see anyone get into trouble over a thing like that, specially after the money and so on was returned.”

  “Goddamn it!” snapped Nash. “What the hell’s wrong with you people? You think because a man gets likkered up and he does something wrong while he’s drunk that that’s any excuse? Hell, mister, they killed someone! Just as sure as if they’d shot him. Maybe they didn’t mean to, but they killed him, they hurt other folks and they smashed up and stole property that didn’t belong to ’em. How would you like it if the same bunch rode in, whooped it up at the saloon
and then came on over here and started wrecking your place? Huh?” He walked over to a glass display case of candy. “How would you like it if they smashed this up? Huh? Like this ...”

  He shoved the case and it teetered dangerously and the man let out a squeal and lunged to catch it. He just managed it and eased it down to the floor slowly. Nash kicked over the cracker barrel and sent the biscuits scattering across the floor. He yanked harness down from overhead beams, broke a jar of neat’s-foot oil, then turned and looked at the shaking, white-faced storekeeper.

  “You get the idea, fat man?” he gritted. “Kind of different when it happens to you, ain’t it?”

  The man swallowed and nodded jerkily. “All right, all right!” he whispered hoarsely. “I—I was wrong. It was Taco Dodd who rode in and mailed that package. He comes from around Signal. Has a hard rock spread with a partner, Wes Coogan.”

  “Better,” Nash told him grimly. “They neighbors of the Triangle H?”

  “Right next door. Share a common boundary line. The other men were Matt Hansen’s. There was his ramrod, Hank Nolan, and Dodd claimed it was Hank who made the old Mex drive the stage and I’d believe it, because Nolan’s a mean son of a bitch. Then there’s a ’breed horse wrangler named Laramie, Red Pepper, Kid Regan, Chip Wolsten and young Tom Danby. He can’t hold his liquor worth a damn. But, Mr. Nash, they’ll burn my store down around my ears if they find out I told you.”

  “No they won’t,” Nash said. “Because I’ll be taking them in for trial. If they want trouble, they’ll get it.” He slapped a hand against his six-gun. “Got a broom?”

  The fat man looked surprised. “Sure. What you want with a broom?”

  “Give you a hand to clean up this mess.”

  The fat man was more surprised than ever.

  As they swept up the last of the cracker crumbs, the storekeeper looked up at Nash and said quietly, “Gal may not be in her cabin. She’s taken to puttin’ flowers on her father’s grave each morning. Graveyard’s behind the church.”

  “Much obliged,” Nash said, handing the man the whisk broom and walking out of the store.

  He found the girl kneeling by the grave with its fresh mound of earth. Judging by the number of empty coffee cans holding flowers in various stages of withering, Nash figured the old man had been buried here about three days ago.

  The girl had a red scarf tied around her head but glistening midnight-blue hair showed beneath it, fanning out in startling contrast against her white peasant blouse. Her skirt was dark green, beaded on the hem, trailing now in the dust of the graveyard, hiding her feet. Nash figured she would be wearing the woven grass sandals favored by her people. From the back he guessed she was young and what he could see of her arms showed smooth, brown skin.

  He leaned back against the shaded corner of the clapboard church and waited silently as she said her prayer, crossed herself and stood up. He saw he had been right about the woven sandals and her bare legs were slim. She turned slowly and he saw her face first in profile and liked the young, clear lines of her nose and full lips. The eyes were dark and opened wide in surprise when they saw him. Her hands went to the red cummerbund at her waist and he saw the hilt of a knife just before she gripped it. Her bosom heaved against the blouse as she stared at him.

  He pushed off the church wall and held his hands out from his sides. “Easy, señorita. Didn’t mean to startle you, but didn’t want to interrupt your respects, either.”

  She didn’t appear to relax any and her hand did not drop away from her waist. She tensed up as he took a step forward.

  “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Of that I am sure, señor,” she told him in a quiet voice and drew the short-bladed knife, holding it in a menacing way.

  “Hell, take it easy, Miss Hernandes!”

  She frowned. “You know my name? But you are a stranger in this town. I know everyone who lives here by sight if not by name and you I have never seen before.”

  “No. I’m Clay Nash, from Wells Fargo. If I can take out my papers without you cuttin’ my heart out, I guess I’ll prove it to you.”

  “Show me these papers,” she said quietly and watched his every movement. She took them from him left-handed, ready to strike with the blade if he showed any hostility. Nash was a little amused now and stood back with a faint smile on his face as she read slowly. She held out her left hand and he took the papers from her. “What do you want, Señor Nash?”

  There was a guarded tone to her question that made Nash look sharply at her and he noticed that she had still not lowered the knife.

  “Just a few questions, señorita.” He gestured at the grave. “Maybe we could go someplace else?”

  “I think this will be an appropriate place for any questions concerning my father’s death, Señor Nash. I presume that this is why you have come?” Her face took on a sadness as she glanced back at the unmarked grave mound. “I will have a head board erected as soon as I can afford one ... Now, señor? Your questions?”

  Nash shrugged. If she wanted to stand here in the morning sun and talk, it was okay with him. “Well, señorita, you know that several people were hurt in that stupid stage hold-up ...”

  “And my father died!”

  “Sure ... I’m sorry about that.”

  “You did not know him.”

  “What difference does that make? You obviously loved him. From what I can gather he was on his way to spend his last few years or months with you, but these drunken cowpokes caused his death earlier. I’m sorry it happened, real sorry, and that’s gospel. Knowin’ or not knowin’ him has nothin’ to do with it.”

  She stared at him and her eyes were glistening with held-back tears as they travelled over his face, seemingly recording every scar and bruise and line. “Gracias, señor,” she said huskily.

  “Por nada,” he said automatically. “Well, what I was about to say was that these other folk got hurt, some bad, some not too bad. But they’re all suin’ Wells Fargo for compensation.”

  She frowned, perplexed. “What is this—this compen ...?”

  “Compensation,” he finished for her. “Well, it’s money that is paid by my company—if the people are successful in their claims—to kind of help make up for the injuries and help pay the doctors’ bills and so on. Mostly it’s to make folk feel a little happier about havin’ been hurt, or killed.”

  She frowned again. “But, how can someone who has been—killed—get this compensation?”

  “Well, they can’t, naturally, because they’re dead. But their next of kin can get it. Like you could get it for your father’s death, if you took the company to court.”

  “I—I see,” she said slowly.

  “You didn’t know about this sort of thing?”

  She shook her head, her white teeth tugging at her red lower lip. Then she looked up at him and returned the knife at last to its sheath inside the cummerbund. “It would not have made any difference. I would not want the money.”

  Nash nodded slowly. “I reckon I could savvy that ... But it’s just that we wondered how come everybody else was hittin’ the company for compensation and you weren’t, when you had the biggest claim of all. And you’d likely have succeeded in any action, but if you ain’t interested ...”

  “No, Señor Nash, I am not interested in money. My father is dead. There is only one thing I am interested in now, and that is the men who killed him.”

  Nash stiffened at her tone and he glanced at her quickly. ‘That’s my job to bring ’em in, señorita,” he said quietly, watching closely for her reaction.

  She merely lifted her face and stared at him levelly, with a sort of cool defiance. “He was my father,” she said almost in a whisper.

  “Aw, now, come on! Don’t you start treadin’ on any toes by bein’ stupid enough to go after these fellers! This is my job. I’m paid to do it, to go up against idiots like these and face their guns if necessary. You don’t have to worry. Wells Fargo’s got all stops out on thi
s one. They want your father’s killers caught just as bad as you do. Now you just leave it to us, señorita, or you’ll find yourself in a lot of trouble.”

  Her eyes blazed at him. “He—was—my—father!”

  “And he died on a Wells Fargo coach. You stay out of it, Miss Hernandes. I’m warnin’ you. This is Wells Fargo’s concern and we’ll see that justice is done. You savvy me?”

  She glared back at him, her mouth tight, but nodded slowly. “I—I understand, Señor Nash,” she told him very quietly.

  “See that you do, and stay out of my hair.”

  He nodded curtly, heeled around and walked back past the church building, leaving the girl standing in the sunlight by the graveside.

  ~*~

  He was collecting his claybank from the livery when he looked across the small plaza and saw the stage from Tucson roll into the depot across there. Idly, as he waited for the livery hand to throw a saddle on the mount, Nash watched the passengers climb stiffly out of the coach and he tensed when he recognized the tall form of Link Somers.

  Nash’s eyes narrowed as he saw the ex-guard stretch his limbs stiffly, look idly around and then angle across the plaza towards the saloon. Nash pursed his lips thoughtfully, turned to the livery hand.

  “Be back in a minute,” he said and strolled out across the plaza to where the stage was. He saw the driver talking with the agent and walked across. The driver knew him slightly from Tucson and nodded.

  “Howdy. Mr. Nash, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right. See you’re carryin’ Link Somers as a passenger.”

  “Yeah. Gettin’ his last ride out of the company. Makin’ ’em take him back to where he was hired.”

  “Which is where?”

  The driver shrugged. “Not sure, but he’s got a ticket to Tombstone now.”

  Nash digested this and looked towards the saloon where two other male passengers were just entering. He decided to let it slide; if Somers was going clear through to Tombstone then he would be out of it. He was a vindictive man, one who would savor petty triumphs, so likely he figured he was top man again, making Wells Fargo pay for his ticket.