Clay Nash 6

by Brett Waring

  “Fine with me.”

  “And you’d better have a sound horse saddled and ready to go before sunup. Can you do it?”

  “Sure. I’ll trade for that black, if you like.”

  Nash nodded and walked back out of the livery, silently cursing the girl for complicating matters. He reckoned he had better go to McDonald, too, and get him to bring across Hume’s reply to the wire he had sent as soon as it came in.

  The old storekeeper griped about the request and said he would have to charge for the extra service, but, just after midnight, he climbed the ladder to the hayloft in the livery in his patched tartan bathrobe and shook Nash awake. The agent came alert instantly, his cocked Colt covering the startled Scot as he handed over the telegram form with shaking hands.

  There was only one word in the message, above Hume’s name. “Satisfactory.”

  Nash swore quietly. Now it would be harder than ever to control the girl.

  ~*~

  Merida Hernandes wasn’t following Hansen and his men as Nash had surmised. She had intended to at first, but, watching from near the edge of town, she had seen the man with the injured hand talking earnestly with Hansen, complaining that he hadn’t yet seen the medic. The rancher had growled at him and told him to go see the sawbones, and not to forget that he wasn’t footing the bill. Laramie hadn’t liked that much and right then and there Merida had decided to wait around until he had been attended to by the doctor and then follow him.

  She would have less chance of being spotted anyway, by a lone rider, than if she tried to follow the main bunch. Also, with Laramie coming along later, if she had followed Hansen, she might well have been caught between the two and her father had taught her long ago never to knowingly let an enemy get behind you.

  Sitting on Nash’s horse, hidden by trees, she had watched Laramie leave town at a fast clip, clean new bandages showing whitely on his hand. She let him get ahead some three hundred yards before starting after him. There would be a half moon later and she would be able to see him for quite some distance ahead. If he looked back, there were always pools of shadow she could melt into but, the way he was riding, it looked to her as if he wouldn’t much bother with his back trail. In fact, she thought he was trying to overhaul Hansen’s group and this worried her: she didn’t want him to rejoin the others, but, travelling at this pace, he would likely catch up with them before they reached the Triangle H.

  It was not an easy trail as she found out once they left the flats and started climbing over a broken range that was almost completely devoid of vegetation. She saw some brief flashes of orange colored light ahead several times and did not know what they could be until she rode the claybank onto a bare rock slope and sparks flew from under shod hoofs, startling the horse and making it hard to handle. She dismounted as soon as she realized they were riding over flint and she soothed the horse with quiet words and led it on foot up the slope until they left the flint behind. She just hoped that Laramie hadn’t been looking behind when the sparks had been struck by the horse’s shoes.

  But no. From the next rise she could make out Laramie’s silhouette as he rode over the crest of a ridge, washed by the pale moonlight. He was travelling slower now. Merida mounted again and put the horse forward warily. When she topped the ridge where she had seen Laramie, she reined down sharply, her hand dropping to the carbine butt under her right leg. There was a campfire down there and she could see the glint of a creek.

  At first she thought it was Hansen and his group but when she approached silently, on foot, carbine in hand, having left the claybank tethered, she saw there was only one man there. It was Laramie. Apparently his hand was giving him trouble for he hugged it to his chest while he set a coffee pot over the flames of the small fire he had started. His face was a grimace of pain as he moved the hand closer to the flames, no doubt hoping the heat would penetrate the bandages and afford him some relief.

  The breed jumped to his feet when the girl stepped into the firelight and cocked the carbine’s hammer back. His hand dropped to his gun butt but he froze the action, watching her closely.

  “Unbuckle your gunbelt, señor,” she told him quietly. “Then step away from it.”

  His eyes watching her all the time, Laramie used his good hand to do as she ordered and when the gun rig fell to the ground he stepped back. She motioned him to move further away with the rifle barrel then came into the firelight proper and took his six-gun from the holster, ramming it into her belt. She kept him covered with the carbine.

  “Sit down and keep your hands up,” she ordered.

  Laramie sat down on a rock. “Can’t I put down my bandaged hand, ma’am? It’s hurting like hell.”

  “Keep it up!” she snapped. She moved a little, standing close to the fire, staring at him. “You were with Hansen at the stage hold-up in Tucson?”

  “Eh? Eh—no, not me. No, I stayed on the ranch,” he lied, sweating, mouth down on one side with the pain in his injured hand.

  “I do not believe you. But we will get to that later ... you can tell me who went with Hansen, even if you did not go yourself.”

  “Well, I dunno if I can,” Laramie said. “I was workin’ up on the range all the time he was away. I—I ain’t sure who went with him.”

  The girl stared at him, her black eyes glittering in the firelight. She walked forward slowly, stood only a couple of feet in front of the worried man; he had heard how she had brought down Coogan and Pepper with that rifle.

  Suddenly the rifle barrel jerked, moving not more than a couple of feet, and Laramie screamed, as it struck his injured hand. He fell off the rock and writhed on the ground, holding the hand against his chest, gasping and moaning. The girl stepped back and watched him and poked him in the ribs with the rifle muzzle. Laramie froze, looked up at her with pain-contorted face.

  “Goddamn!” he sobbed. “You broke them fingers all over again!”

  “I want the truth,” she told him coldly and stepped forward swiftly. She swept his injured hand out to the side and stood on the wrist with one boot, pinning his arm to the ground. He choked with pain and looked up at her with fear-filled eyes as she held the carbine butt above the bandages.

  “You will tell me who went with Hansen to Tucson. You will name the men and describe them in every detail. And, remember, I have seen some of Hansen’s riders. I will know when you lie.”

  “Aw, lady, give me a break! Please! Lemme have a cup of java laced with whisky to deaden the pain. I—I can’t think!”

  Merida looked down at him coldly and raised the carbine butt a couple of inches as if she was about to slam it down.

  “Wait!” he almost screamed, gasping, sweat pouring from his face. “All right, all right. There was Hansen himself, of course. Hank Nolan, Red Pepper, Kid Regan, Chuck Wolsten, Tom Danby. All from Triangle H. We picked up Wes Coogan and Taco Dodd: They threw their herd in with ours. That’s all, ma’am, honest. And Coogan, Dodd, Regan and Pepper are already dead. You and Nash took care of them. And Link Somers killed Nolan. He was the one made your pa dress up in ladies’ underwear and get into the driver’s seat. The rest of us never even thought of that, but Hank, he was likkered up and he didn’t like Mexicans, no how ... He was always ridin’ me ragged ... What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “I am not a fool. I know there were nine men. You named me eight. But you have also told me who the ninth man was. You!”

  Laramie cowered, teeth bared, knowing he had made a slip in his eagerness to name the others and cast the blame onto Nolan. He swallowed, knew there was no point in trying to deny it now.

  “You have named the men,” the girl said, still pinning his arm. “Now you will describe them ... I do not need to know about Hansen and Somers. I can easily recognize them. But I want the descriptions of the others.”

  Laramie sweated and gasped and groaned while he described the others. Before he had gone far with Wolsten, the girl stopped him and said, “Si, I know him. He was riding with Hans
en and his group when they left town.” Then she had him move along to the next name, Tom Danby, and she realized from the ’breed’s description that he, too, had been riding with Hansen in Signal. She would know these men when she saw them and she expected to see them only over the sights of her carbine from whatever hiding place she chose on the Triangle H.

  “That’s all of ’em, still livin’,” Laramie said. “Will you let my hand go now?”

  She stepped back and he sat up with a moan, hugging his hand to his chest.

  “You are wrong, señor,” Merida said suddenly. “That is not all who are still living. You forget that you were there, too.” Laramie looked at her fearfully as the carbine swung down to cover him. “But ... but I done what you wanted! I told you about the others!”

  Merida looked at him coldly, her finger on the trigger.

  Nine – Beyond Trail’s End

  There was no more than a thin silver line in the east showing above the distant ranges when Clay Nash rode out of Signal and he was a couple of miles out along the trail before the first glittering edge of the sun appeared and poured pale orange light across the countryside.

  He had a map in his pocket, drawn by the stable hand and Nash had paid him well to make sure it was accurate and bore all relevant landmarks. He had also had the man sketch in roughly the area covered by Triangle H and mark down any places that could be used to hide a sniper.

  Nash was worried about the girl. He had a debt to square away with her, and he was willing to stick his neck out, go against company policy to do it now that she had taken the bit between her teeth and was running wild. Before, he would merely have accepted Wells Fargo’s answer to Hansen’s proposals and let it go at that.

  He reined down sharply, Colt sliding into his hand as he looked down from the ridge where he was and saw the still-smoldering campfire beside a small creek. There was a man sitting against a rock, dozing, with his head across his folded arms. Even from here, Nash could see the white bandage around his left hand.

  Nash eased the new mount—a chestnut—down the trail easily and dismounted, leaving the animal with trailing reins while he made his way down the slope on foot and came up behind Laramie. He was still dozing, his six-gun in its holster on the ground beside him. A coffee pot was at the edge of the coals. Nash looked around but could see no one else. Then he stepped in fast and placed his Peacemaker’s muzzle against the back of Laramie’s head, snapping the hammer back to full cock.

  “Time to wake up, mister!”

  There was no response and even before the man started to topple to the side, Nash knew he was dead. He used a boot toe to turn him over onto his back and saw the bullet hole with the drying blood around it in the center of Laramie’s chest. He sighed and put up his own gun, kneeling beside the man and feeling his flesh. It was cold but the joints weren’t yet set, so likely she wasn’t all that far ahead.

  Nash ran back up the slope to where he had left his horse tethered and swung into leather. He rode down the trail again and past Laramie’s body and walked the horse through the creek, stopping briefly on the other side to consult the map the liveryman had drawn for him. He looked around for the landmark of the jagged needle rock, found it, and headed the chestnut up that way.

  Another ten miles and he saw the first sign of Triangle H: a vague outline of a gate dancing in the heat haze drawn out of the ground by the mid-morning sun. Somewhere beyond that gate lay the ranch house and its outbuildings.

  And somewhere within rifle shot of them would be Merida Hernandes.

  ~*~

  Lewis was a hardcase, a killer and a thief, but a man who enjoyed life. He always said that if a sheriff’s bullet snuffed out his life tomorrow, he would have no regrets. He had lived life to the full, done most things, had one hell of a good time. He sure wouldn’t go looking for the bullet that had his name on it, but there were so many lawmen after him throughout the Union that he was more or less resigned to running into the one who would kill him at any time. That’s why he lived every minute as if it was his last, because it could well be.

  He had seven or eight men riding for him now and they gave Hansen’s men a hand to work the stolen herd into the corrals that had been built in the hidden canyon deep in the ranges at the back of Triangle H.

  Lewis was medium height, bearded and sweat-stained; he was a man who didn’t mind working right alongside his men and in truth, he worked harder to make a living outside the law than if he had taken a steady job within it. But danger was an added spice to Lewis.

  He rode across now through the dust to where Matt Hansen and Link Somers sat their mounts, watching the bawling steers mill and buck and jostle within the confines of the corrals.

  “I’d get them brands vented right smartly, Matt,” Lewis told the rancher. “Some of them fellers we lifted ’em from are mighty riled and I reckon they’ll still be somewheres along our back trail. We made a few false leads for ’em to follow, but it’d be safer if you got ’em rebranded and on the way to market pronto.”

  “We’ll handle it, Lewis. Here’s your money.”

  Hansen handed over some bills and Lewis immediately began to count them. Link Somers laughed. “You ain’t changed. Lew! Still don’t trust no one, eh?”

  Lewis looked up and grinned. “No one ’ceptin’ myself.”

  He went on counting watched by Somers, as Hansen rode over to where Danby and Wolsten were fighting steers through a chute.

  “Hey, Chip! Tom!” the rancher bawled. “Leave them cows to the others. You two get out to the dam and start work on it again. Soon as the cows are in the pens and I pick a brandin’ team, I’ll send some men out to give you a hand.”

  Wolsten and Danby nodded, hazed the last of a line of steers through the loading chute and dropped the gate into place.

  “What about Laramie, Matt?” Wolsten asked. “He won’t be much help with that hand of his.”

  “No, well he can lend a hand with the brand-changin’ whenever the hell he decides to come back!”

  “His hand was pretty well busted-up, boss,” Danby said, “mebbe the sawbones is keepin’ him in town for a spell.”

  “Well, he better be prepared to pay for it himself!” Hansen growled. “Now move on out to the dam site. I want that project finished as soon as possible.”

  They threw him a brief salute and turned their mounts and out of the canyon, through the screening line of timber and started across the pastures towards the distant dam.

  Hansen rode back to Lewis who was just putting the money in his shirt pocket now. “All there, Matt,” the rustler boss told him. “You in the market for some more?”

  “All you can bring,” Hansen told him. “I’ll get rid of ’em.”

  “How soon?”

  Hansen thought briefly. “Give me a month to get these the market. I’ll put another brand on ’em this time. Don’t want word to get around that Triangle H is shippin’ thousands of beef cattle with only a few weeks between. Folks might start wonderin’ what in hell I’m feedin’ ’em.”

  Lewis and Somers joined in his laughter and the rustler opened his mouth to speak again but froze, cocking an ear in a listening attitude.

  “What is it?” Hansen asked swiftly.

  “Shootin’!”

  “Yeah ... I hear it, too!” Somers said, fighting his horse around.

  “Hell!” Lewis breathed. “Mebbe I didn’t throw them ranchers so good after all!”

  He whipped out his six-gun and rode off instantly, yelling to his men to cut out and clear the canyon. The rustlers needed no second bidding. They stopped whatever they were doing right away and set their mounts after Lewis. He waved briefly to Hansen and Somers and led his men at full gallop towards the secret rear exit from the canyon. He didn’t aim to be trapped.

  Nor did Hansen. He spurred his mount forward, with Somers alongside, waving his men towards the canyon mouth where Danby and Wolsten had gone. Above the bawling of the steers they could hear several scattered shots; a rifle,
and it sounded like one or two six-guns answering. The shooting was coming from up on the timbered slopes of the range.

  Somers spurred in close to Hansen’s mount. “I don’t reckon that’s any posse! Sounds like a lone gun to me. The rifle I mean. Mebbe two six-guns, though …”

  “Chip and Danby!” Hansen snapped. He waved his arm at the men who were following him. “Spread out and cover the base of that mountain!” he yelled. “Spread out!”

  Link Somers spurred on ahead and set his mount over into the first row of the trees, moving it up the slope, holstering his six-gun now and pulling a rifle from its scabbard. He was right, he was sure. There was one rifle, somewhere up on the slope and there were two six-guns answering it. Someone had bushwhacked Chip Wolsten and Tom Danby, he figured.

  It could be Nash and that damn Mexican gal! Nash had said he would wire Hansen’s offer to Hume but that might be all hogwash. And if he and the gal had set themselves up on the mountain to pick off the Triangle H riders, it could explain why Laramie hadn’t showed up last night.

  He rode with only one hand on the reins, the other holding the rifle. There was only one six-gun now, he was sure of it ... which meant someone had caught it. But why only one rifle? There should be two: Nash and the girl. Unless ... by hell! The girl had been the one to storm out; she hadn’t wanted Nash to let Hansen settle things by buying his way out. It might be just the girl up there on the slope.

  On the far side of the mountain, Clay Nash rammed home the spurs and set the chestnut racing up the grade, his own rifle in his hand. He had heard the gunfire and knew what it meant. The girl was on the other side of the mountain and she was in trouble: at first there had been two six-guns barking but now he was pretty sure there was only one. It could mean she had nailed one of the men, or it could simply be that the second gun was creeping around to get behind her—

  Nash came pounding up to the crest and weaved his mount through the trees, ducking low in the saddle and crossing the skyline where the trees were thickest. He saw the girl almost at once, only yards below him, holed-up in some rocks, shooting her carbine and whirling at the sound of his horse.