Clay Nash 8

by Brett Waring

Nash nodded and emptied his glass. “Guess not. Anyways, you had a natural fast draw. It’s not anythin’ you’d forget how to do.” He sipped his drink, noticing that Hollis tossed his down in a single gulp again. The man was putting away three to Nash’s one but it didn’t seem to be affecting him. Nash, on the other hand, was feeling a little woozy but he put this down to his tiredness. He tossed down his drink and then another, fast. Maybe a little more alcohol under his belt would spark him up. “Well, Trace, we’ve been talkin’ a lot about the past. Must be ’bout time to stop the talkin’ and get on with havin’ some real fun. What d’you say?”

  “I reckon.”

  Clay jumped as Hollis immediately picked up the whisky bottle and hurled it into the mirror behind the bar. A shelf collapsed and bottles and glasses cascaded to the floor in a shattered heap. Nash froze as two bouncers came charging across the room and started slamming away at Hollis with short wooden billies. Hollis ducked and weaved, then with a wild, excited laugh swept a pile of glass into the men before charging them like a bull. His fists slammed at the bouncers while his boots hacked at their shins until they backed off.

  “Come on, Clay!” Hollis bawled and then started slugging in earnest at one of the men.

  The barkeep had recovered enough to reach under the counter for a pickaxe handle. He raised it, aiming to slam it down on Hollis’ head—but not before Nash had vaulted the bar. His swinging boots took the barman on the ear and sent him staggering. As he fought to keep his balance, Nash saw that Hollis had taken a billy off one of the bouncers and was smashing at the man’s head and shoulders. The man tried to cover with his arms but he was too late. There was a dull, cracking sound and he sank to his knees with a sickening moan. Hollis bared his teeth, drove the billy end-on into the middle of the man’s face and he fell back against the front of the bar, bleeding and stunned. The second bouncer charged in and Nash picked up the pickaxe handle and hurled it viciously towards the bar. The bouncer stopped dead as the handle took him in the chest. Hollis leapt in, hammering at him with fists, boots and billy.

  Nash went to move but tumbled as the barkeep grabbed his ankle. He turned and kicked at the man’s hand but stumbled and went down with a yell. The barman threw himself on top of Nash and tried to gouge out his eyes. He hooked a thumb in the corner of Nash’s mouth and began to rip at his face—until a dull thud made him change his mind. The man collapsed on top of Nash. There was another thud as Nash hurled the man away and sat up in a daze. He looked up and saw Hollis standing over the unconscious barman, holding his billy. He was bloody and a little disheveled, but he was grinning widely as he leaned down to help Nash to his feet.

  “Time to go,” he panted, and shoved Nash towards a curtained doorway. It led to a passage and on to a rear door which opened into the yard at the back. The saloon seemed to be in uproar as they clambered over a high fence and, stumbled down a dimly-lit alley.

  “Judas priest,” Nash said. “What in hell made you cut loose like that?”

  “You said it was time to howl—and so it was,” Hollis laughed. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll bill me, as usual.”

  Nash slowed his pace. “As usual?” Hollis grabbed his arm and urged him on.

  “Yeah. Once in a while I cut loose, like I told you. Bit of violence don’t do no harm.”

  “Tell that to the bouncers.”

  Hollis laughed again. “They got hard heads. Come on, Clay. We’ll wash up—then I’ll take you to Harmer’s.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Palace. Then the night’ll really liven up.”

  Nash groaned inwardly, wondering if he could stand the pace. This Trace Hollis, the one of sudden and unpredictable violence, was a man he had never known before. He couldn’t help wondering just what the rest of the night held in store.

  ~*~

  Her name was Ruby and she was a redhead. Tall and arrogant, she eased her silken legs into a chair and leaned towards Trace with a wicked smile. “Hello, honey. You look as though you could do with a drink.” She flicked her huge eyes towards Clay. “You and him both.” She returned her eyes to Hollis and pouted: “How about it, Trace, honey?”

  Hollis turned his head away, smiled, and said, “I’m busy, sweetheart—ask Mr. Nash, why don’t you? He’s a real drinkin’ man.” He stood up and walked from the table—straight into the arms of a busty blonde. She held him tightly as they sauntered towards the bar.

  Ruby took Clay’s hand and looked directly at him with her cool, green eyes. “Buy me a drink—Mr. Nash, baby. You ain’t gonna deny me one little glass now are you?” His eyes were glazed and he didn’t seem to hear. Ruby pressed his hand.

  Nash looked around the bar but he couldn’t see either Hollis or the blonde.

  “Where’d Trace go?” he mumbled, shaking his head a little. He felt kind of woozy and he knew the extreme tiredness was catching up with him, as well as the liquor he had consumed.

  Ruby slipped her arm through his and cuddled close against him. “Don’t worry about Trace. He’s having himself a good time. Blondie’ll take care of him. Just like I’ll take care of you.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Nash said, shaking his head again. He wasn’t averse to a little female company but, by hell, he wanted to be able to remember tomorrow whether he had had a good time or not. He shouldn’t have come out for a night on the town when he was so damn tired.

  Ruby changed her tactics. “Look, the name’s Ruby. And to Ruby you look kind of beat.” She pressed her full breasts against his shoulder. “I know what you need to get the blood flowin’ again,” she whispered—and dropped her hand to his thigh. Nash shook his head slowly.

  “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn.

  The girl laughed. “What you need is some fresh air.” She slid out of the chair, picked up his glass of whisky, and held it towards him. “Finish it—then we’ll take a little walk. Outside. It’ll clear your head.”

  “I’ll just settle for the walk,” Nash said, pushing the glass aside.

  “Suit yourself, lover—you paid for it.” She glanced at the whisky. “Just seems a shame to waste good likker.”

  “You have it, then.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “I’m on duty. Didn’t your mamma tell you anythin’ ’bout the big bad world?”

  “Yeah, sure, sure,” Nash said, stifling another yawn. He picked up the whisky and tossed it straight down. “Can’t say I recall much ’bout mamma’s advice,” he said passing his hand wearily across his brow. “Maybe I wouldn’t be here if I did, eh, Ruby?”

  Ruby stood up with a smile. “Let’s go get some fresh air. Then I’ll bed you down—okay?”

  “Fine,” mumbled Clay. “Just fine.”

  She took his arm and they headed towards a side door of the saloon.

  “I was loco to listen to Trace Hollis. Should’ve gone to bed a long time ago.”

  “Still can,” she said with obvious meaning as they stepped out into the darkness.

  Nash paused to stretch his aching body. “Guess we’ve seen the last of Trace for the night, huh?”

  “Blondie’s not that good,” Ruby said with a flash of professional jealousy, though she smiled when she spoke. “More like he’s up to somethin’ else by now.”

  “Sounds promisin’,” Nash rambled. “Trace seems to be a popular sort of hombre.”

  “He’s a good spender, When the mood takes him. And when he’s got enough left.”

  Nash frowned, wiping a hand down his sweating face, feeling nauseous. “Enough left? From what?”

  “Oh, cards, blackjack, faro, poker …”

  She broke off and grabbed his arm as he swayed then lumbered against a wall.

  “Hey! You all right?”

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No, I’m not all—right.” He was abruptly and violently ill and he had a vague recollection of the girl leading him away and trying to help him up a long, narrow dark stairway that seemed to rise to infinity. But, somehow, he m
issed a step and began to fall, his body twisting and turning in an awful slow motion he couldn’t understand.

  Suddenly, he was brought to a halt with a shattering impact—and his consciousness exploded into a thousand sparks of brilliant light.

  ~*~

  The gambling room was thick with smoke, a monotonous murmur filling the room, broken occasionally by the voice of a dealer calling the cards or the run of the dice. The click of the turning cages was lost in the general hum of voices.

  Trace Hollis sweated at the table, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, shirt open to the waist, hair hanging down lankly over one eye. The blonde was nowhere to be seen, but none of the men playing poker would have noticed had she stood there naked. Their passion was for the cards and the pile of money in the pot.

  Hollis selected a card carefully, discarded it and nodded to the houseman to deal him one more. He ran a tongue across his lips as he picked it up, hesitated, then put it with the others in his hand. Slowly, he fanned the cards then closed them with a snap of his fingers.

  “Nope,” he growled, and placed the cards on the table face down. The houseman’s expression didn’t change as he raked in the pot. Already the other gamblers were starting to push their next starting bets into the center of the table. Hollis glanced across to the houseman. “How’s my credit?”

  The gamblers froze and the houseman stared at him for a long minute, glanced up and then spoke in a metallic voice: “Not for me to say.”

  “Who, then?” No one spoke, but Hollis sensed someone standing behind him. He turned slowly and gazed into the hard face of the Palace owner, Tex Harmer, a big man in a black frock coat and expensive white ruffled shirt.

  “You were askin’?”

  Hollis stood up, smiling. “Yeah. ’Bout credit. Mine.”

  Tex Harmer gave Hollis a bleak look. His face was scarred in several places, mostly above the eyes and along the jaw line. There were networks of tiny scars on the knuckles of both hands.

  “Lousy,” said Harmer. “Never worse.” He jerked his head slightly, turned and walked away. Hollis moved after him.

  Harmer stopped suddenly and glared across the room towards a nervous girl coming through the door. Hollis recognized the girl as Ruby, the tall red-headed girl. She came hurrying to where the men stood and addressed Hollis.

  “Your friend,” she stammered.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s—ill. Leastways, he threw up downstairs and I managed to get him to my room. But he’s—passed out.”

  Hollis stared at her for a spell. “Been on the trail for days without sleep. What’d you expect him to do—dance?”

  Ruby was in no mood for jokes. She meant business.

  “He can’t stay—in my room, I mean.”

  “Listen, bitch—he’s my buddy—and I say he stays put.” He tapped her lightly but meaningfully on the cheek. “Get the message?”

  “I gotta be paid—for my time.”

  “He’s got a roll on him. Take what you think you’re worth. That wouldn’t be hard to figure, now, would it?”

  Ruby looked at Harmer. He nodded. She turned to Hollis and shrugged. “Okay.”

  Harmer gripped her arm. “And keep your fat butt outa this gamin’ room.”

  The girl hurried out and Harmer walked slowly into his office. Hollis followed and closed the door. There was a long silence, broken only by the faint rattle of the turning dice cage and the muffled voice of the houseman.

  Finally, Harmer spoke. “I’m holdin’ too many of your markers, Trace. Time to start payin’ up.”

  Hollis nodded. “I’m workin’ on it. ’Fact, that’s why I want to see you.”

  Harmer frowned and sat down slowly. “Okay, tell me.”

  ~*~

  Clay Nash reckoned he must be dead. He was certain sure he couldn’t be living, not with a head like this. It felt as if it had been neatly split in two by a hatchet and the two halves were lying some distance apart. His throat was parched; burning dry. His gullet felt on fire and his stomach was something he preferred not to think about right now. He opened his eyes, slowly.

  He shut them again—fast—as searing, brilliant white light blinded him. He figured he had to be in hell. After a while, he slowly moved his eyelids again and peered through the lashes as a filter. He was surprised—and relieved—to find that he was in a room, and that the light was the morning sun streaming through a window.

  Groaning, he managed to lift an arm to shade his face and then moved his head very gently on the pillow. His brain seemed to be drifting around inside his skull now and then clanking against the bone walls, each time jarring his whole body with pain. It was some time before he managed to sit up, only to hug his midriff, fighting down the rising nausea.

  God almighty, he had lived through some terrible hangovers in the past, but he was damned if he could ever remember one being as bad as this.

  Gradually, it came back to him. The night before he had set out with Trace Hollis to tie one on, paint the town red. They hadn’t done too badly for a spell. He had drunk too much later. Then there was that whore—Lucy. No, Ruby. Yeah, Ruby. She had suggested they go for a walk in the night air to clear his head and—he had been sick in an alley. Then a long climb up some stairs. Then nothing. Was this her place? Her bed?

  He looked around the room. Piles of gaudy dresses, underclothes, shoes and a clutter of cosmetics. This was her room all right, but where was she?

  Nash got shakily to his feet, instinctively feeling for his wallet. It was empty. No matter. She was welcome to it. After all, even a whore deserves to be paid. But God only knows why.

  He sloshed water over his head, drank what he figured was half a gallon, and grabbed his hat. Staggering through the door he swayed unsteadily to the small landing at the top of the outside stairway. It was mighty early and there was no one about. Today was Sunday, anyway. Folk would be sleeping in. Till the church bells disturbed them a little later on, leastways. He hated the thought of sitting on that jolting stage when it pulled out for Squirrel Creek, but he guessed he would survive somehow. But by hell, he had never felt as bad as this!

  He groped his way warily down the stairs and into the alley beside the silent saloon. On the street, a couple of cur dogs rummaged around rubbish heaps. Two cowpokes sprawled in drunken sleep across the boardwalk outside the ‘Union’ and an unsaddled horse wandered aimlessly down the wide street. Nash stayed close to the walls of the buildings and used them for support as he made his way to the far end of Main and the Wells Fargo depot.

  Reaching it, he wished he hadn’t. He sure didn’t feel able to cope with what he found.

  The door had been smashed. That was the first thing that filtered through his throbbing consciousness. He groped for his gun, barely able to hold it steady as he went in cautiously. The front room had been wrecked and the window in Hollis’ office door was smashed. Nash made his way across the debris and looked through the jagged splinters of glass.

  As he had expected, the safe had been blown open. Everything it had contained had been stolen.

  Clay Nash groaned again as he put a hand up to his thumping head and leaned weakly against the door.

  Four – Morning After

  Jim Hume paced irritably about his hotel room. The stains of travel were still on his body and his clothing. He had just stepped off the stage from Denver and was tired, dirty and angry as he glared at Clay Nash and Trace Hollis. “Well, what in hell have you done since the robbery?”

  Trace seemed alert enough, although a shade uncomfortable, but Hume had never seen Clay look so ill. He had known Nash to cut loose in a wild night on the town before, but he hadn’t seen the man still hung-over twenty-four hours later. Clay’s face was gray and drawn, his jaw was stubbled and there were signs he had been vomiting. Whatever he’d been drinking had been pretty potent, but Hume had little sympathy for him; he regarded hangovers as being strictly self-inflicted wounds.

  “There hasn’t been a helluva lot we’
ve been able to do, Jim,” Nash said quietly. His voice was like a rasp being used on coarse sandpaper. “No one heard any explosion,” he added lamely, “but you saw the state of the office.”

  Hume glared. “Any signs of fuses? Detonator caps?” Nash shook his head slowly, carefully.

  “Some town that can sleep through the noise of a safe being blown wide open,” growled Hume.

  “Well, I dunno, Jim,” Trace Hollis said, speaking for the first time. “It was Saturday night and there was a lot of racket goin’ on. And the depot’s right at the end of Main, away from anythin’ else.”

  Hume grunted, glaring at Nash. “Which is a damn good reason why it shouldn’t have been left unguarded with a payroll in the safe.”

  Nash flushed a little. “All right, Jim. I take the point.”

  Hume glared fiercely. “So you damn well should.” Hollis began to protest. “Now, wait up, Jim ...” But Clay cut him short.

  “I aimed to check before I turned in. Arranged it with Trace.” He glanced at Hollis who nodded vigorously. “But I guess I was dead beat. Hadn’t slept for nigh on three days. That—and the likker—caught up with me. I’ve never had such a damn hangover before—and I’ve had a mite of experience in that line.”

  “There’s nothin’ funny about this, Clay!” Hume snapped. “Hell almighty, you were on your way to investigate one robbery at Squirrel Creek—and you let another happen right under your nose.”

  Hollis stepped forward. “It was mostly my fault. You can’t blame Clay. I took him out on the town. He wanted to turn in but I kept him drinkin’ and movin’ about and I sorta ... fixed him up with a gal.”

  “He’s got a mind of his own,” Hume said. “And what the hell were you doin’, anyway?”

  “I guess I was—gamblin’.”

  “All night?”

  “Yeah. Got locked into a real big game and didn’t realize the time. You know how it is. First I knew about the robbery was when Clay came staggerin’ in, lookin’ like death warmed-over ...”

  “Forget it, Trace,” Clay said abruptly. “It was my fault. I was ridin’ shotgun. I was responsible.”