Clay Nash 8

by Brett Waring

  “You were,” Hume said crisply.

  “All right, damn it, you’ve made that point enough times!” Clay snapped, holding to his head. He groped for a chair and sat down, rubbing at his temples. “By hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say I’d been drugged. This is too damn much just to be a hangover.”

  Hume and Hollis both stiffened, looking sharply at Nash. He stood slowly, rubbing his stomach.

  “I’m goin’ to see a sawbones.”

  Hume put out a hand to stop him but Nash moved aside and glared at him.

  “I should’ve gone earlier. Likker don’t affect me this way—and not with gripin’ pains in the guts. No, it’s more like bein’ drugged ’cause I can’t think straight. Someone must have slipped me a Mickey Finn.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “We were in a lot of bars,” Nash said, glancing at Hollis.

  Hollis looked uneasy. “I think you’re wrong, Clay. I reckon you were just dead beat and the booze got to you.”

  Nash shrugged, nodded curtly to both men and went out, looking for a medico’s shingle.

  He found one on Dragoon Street and the doctor swiftly diagnosed an overdose of chloral hydrate.

  “It’s deadly when it’s dissolved in alcohol,” he said. “Something that’s come to us via the gin mills of the Barbary Coast.”

  “You treated anyone else for this lately?” Nash asked as the doctor began mixing a remedy.

  “We-ell, I hear there’s a saloon in town that has been known to employ the knock-out drops from time to time. I wouldn’t like to mention names, because it’s never been pinned down. Anyone I’ve seen suffering from the after-effects couldn’t remember which saloon they’d been in.”

  Nash looked grim. “Well, I can.”

  The medic mixed the draught with water and the liquid turned milky. He stirred it with a glass rod and handed it to Nash. “Maybe you’re lucky, then. Drink this. You’ll feel better within minutes. I guarantee it.”

  Nash took the glass, sniffed and jerked his head back. “Hey! This is ammonia.”

  “It’s called Spirits of Compound Ammonia. Drink it. It’ll do you good.”

  Nash shrugged and tossed down the draught. Tears sprang to his eyes and he grimaced, clawing at his throat as he opened his mouth, gasping for air. But almost at once he felt a warm glow spreading through his gullet and all the way down to his stomach. From there, it seemed to reach every part of his body. He handed the empty glass back to the doctor.

  The doctor smiled. “You’ll be fighting fit in half an hour. And I mean that.”

  “Well, that’s fine with me, Doc. How much?”

  “Five dollars. Tell me, Mr. Nash, was one of the saloons called the Palace?”

  Nash looked at him sharply as he handed over the money. “Yeah.”

  “Money missing?”

  “The little I was carryin’. But I reckon I was drugged for another reason, Doc.”

  The medic looked interested but Nash didn’t explain. He picked up his hat and jammed it on, his head feeling better and clearer than it had all day. He went out and into the street. Already he was feeling hungry; he hadn’t been able to keep down anything during the day, not even a cup of coffee. So he crossed to a cafe and ordered eggs and bacon and coffee with bread. He was ravenously hungry and could have eaten another order of the food but left it at that. He didn’t aim to push his luck. It was almost incredible how much better he felt now after taking the draught. He cursed himself for not having gone to the medico much earlier in the day.

  He knew he was thinking clearly now and walked down the darkening street towards the Palace.

  The bar was fairly packed. Some of the whores were operating but he couldn’t see Ruby. Then he spotted the blonde girl just as she was coming through a beaded curtain at one end of the bar. He moved towards her swiftly, shoving people roughly aside. They protested loudly—and the blonde looked towards them. Recognizing Clay, she gave a startled cry and hurried back through the beaded curtain.

  Nash reached it, wrenched it aside and saw a heavily-built bouncer racing towards him, fists cocked. Nash wasn’t in the mood to waste time. He drew his six-gun, dodged the heavy blow the man swung at him, and laid his gun barrel hard alongside the bouncer’s temple. He crumpled to the passage floor and Nash stepped over him and flew up the short stairway at the end, two at a time. Just as he bounded onto the landing, he saw a door closing halfway down a dimly-lit hall. Nash rushed towards it in time to hear a key turning in the lock. He didn’t hesitate. He lifted a boot and drove it hard against the door lock.

  The wood splintered and there was a shrill cry from inside as the door slammed back violently. Nash stepped through the opening. The blonde lay sprawled on the floor. He kicked the door closed behind him and leaned his back against it, still holding the gun. He let the barrel point casually towards the blonde. She cowered.

  “Wh-what d’you want?”

  “Ruby.”

  The blonde frowned. “Ruby? Well, all you gotta do is try her room, mister! No need for this kind of thing.”

  Nash walked forward slowly and stood over the girl. She looked very small and helpless lying there at his feet. He let the gun swing limply at his side.

  “You ever used knock-out drops on a man?”

  He saw by her face that she had, though she tried to cover the fact by shaking her head vigorously. Clay became angry. He reached down, twisted his fingers in her hair and yanked her head back. She stared up with terrified eyes as he pushed the point of his gun hard against her cheek.

  “Your looks can make or break you in your trade, Blondie.”

  “Don’t,” she breathed. “Please, don’t.”

  Nash stared down at her coldly then pressed harder with the gun.

  “Yeah. All right. Once in a while when some cowpoke or cattle agent comes in loaded with cash—Harmer gives us a small bottle to put in their drink.”

  Nash eased the pressure a little. “Did he give some to Ruby to knock me out last night? I want the truth.”

  She shook her head. “No. Honest. We just sort of team up if we see a couple of fellers together. All I know is that Ruby asked me to get Trace away from you.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell him about the gamblin’ in Harmer’s special room.”

  “Special?”

  “For the high stake games.”

  Nash looked at her steadily for a few seconds. He felt she was likely to be telling the truth, so he released his hold. He went out, still holding his gun and moved down the passage until he came to Ruby’s room. He knocked but got no reply. He tried the handle. It was locked, so he kicked the door in, and entered with his gun cocked. The room was in darkness, but gradually the faint light from the hall and a yellow glow from the street managed to filter through the gloom. He couldn’t see anyone, and moved around cautiously. Finally Clay struck a vesta and lit a table lamp. The room was just as it had appeared that morning. But on closer inspection he realized that most of Ruby’s clothes were missing. A further search showed that there were a few cosmetics on the bedside table but that was all. Obviously, Ruby had cleared out.

  Nash left the room with the door swinging open and the lamp burning. He glanced towards the blonde’s room and saw that her door was partly open, too, and that the room was now in darkness. He swore. Likely she had run to Harmer.

  He hurried on down the passage, looking at the doors, searching for Harmer’s office. He soon realized that the hallway led only to the whores’ rooms, so he turned down another passage. Here he found several offices and a door marked ‘private’. It was locked but he didn’t kick it in. There was no light showing underneath and he guessed it was the ‘special’ gambling room. He moved on a little way and saw Harmer’s office just as the door opened to reveal the big saloon owner with the blonde. She gave a small cry when she saw Nash and ran swiftly down the passage.

  “Get Moody,” Harmer yelled, and ducked back through the door.

  But Nash was m
oving like an express train and his shoulder smashed into the woodwork before Harmer could shoot the bolt across on the inside. Woodwork splintered around the latch and the door crashed open. Harmer was sent flying across the room, stumbling, and wildly off-balance. He slammed into his desk and rolled across it, scattering papers, before he thudded to the floor. Nash leapt across the room. Harmer was halfway to his feet as Clay lashed out with a boot and hooked him neatly alongside the head, sending him sprawling. Harmer rolled and bounced to all fours, shaking his head, backing off as he fought for room to straighten. He was almost upright when Nash hit him with his gun barrel in the midriff and doubled him over. Nash snapped a knee into his face and sent him slamming back against the wall. The Wells Fargo man rapped Harmer in the mouth with his gun barrel, kicked him in the shins and clubbed him behind the ear as he jack-knifed. The man grunted and spread out on the carpet on his face.

  Nash holstered his gun, grabbed the flower vase from the desk and dashed the stinking water into the saloon man’s face. Harmer gagged and clawed it out of his eyes.

  He looked up murderously.

  “You play kinda dirty, Nash,” he growled.

  “Have to. I’ve been sick,” Nash quipped—and drove a boot into Harmer’s chest. His voice was edged with steel as he added: “Thanks to your Mickey Finn.”

  He saw by Harmer’s face that he had hit the nail on the head so he grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. Harmer came easily enough and that should have warned Nash, but he was in too much of a rage right now to take heed. Allowing himself to be lifted close against Nash, Harmer suddenly brought up his knee. Nash just managed to turn and take most of the blow on his thigh. But it shook him and sent him staggering. The saloon man moved after him with a curse, fists balled up and swinging.

  Nash covered swiftly but two hammer blows got through his guard and jarred him back into the wall. He ducked another swing, smashed a back-handed blow into Harmer’s face that sent the saloon man staggering. Nash went after him, fists sledging, hammering, chopping, jarring. Harmer covered, weaved and dodged, but he didn’t have enough room to escape some of the blows and he stumbled sideways, almost going down, reaching out with a hand to stop himself. Nash kicked the supporting arm and Harmer hit the floor with a thud, rolling fast, though, away from Nash’s boots. He scooped up a chair and flung it into Clay’s path. Nash’s shins hit against the woodwork and he stumbled. Harmer swung his legs, sweeping Nash’s from under him. Clay sat down heavily and Harmer hurled himself bodily at him, clubbed fist raised and ready to smash down into the middle of the other’s face. Nash jerked his head aside but the knuckles still brushed his temple, dazing him momentarily. Harmer drove a knee into his belly, with all his weight behind it. Nash gagged and then Harmer straddled him, his big hands reaching for Clay’s throat.

  Nash waited until the man’s snarling face was close before lifting his head off the floor and snapping it forward. His forehead butted into Harmer’s nose and the man jerked back, the blood spraying. He lost balance and started to fall, though his hands grasped convulsively at Nash’s throat again. Nash butted him once more, heaved, arching his back, bringing up his legs, pushing the dazed man aside. He rolled away from Harmer as the big man fought to hands and knees by pure instinct and crawled back towards him. Nash, on his knees, balled his right fist and swung it hard from far behind him. It connected with the side of the saloon man’s jaw and Harmer fell over on his side. His eyes went glazed as he started to drag himself towards Nash again.

  Clay threw himself bodily forward; all his weight behind his driving fist. It took Harmer in the middle of the face and sent the man sprawling and writhing in agony. Nash rolled away slowly and started to get to hands and knees. There was a noise in the doorway and Clay saw Moody, the bouncer, coming straight at him—blood streaking one side of his face, his hand groping for his gun to bring it out of leather. Nash threw himself forward, hand streaking for his Colt. It came clear of leather and up and around as Moody snapped his hammer back to full cock. Clay’s gun roared a split-second ahead of Moody’s and the bouncer slammed back into the passage, his gun arm jerking towards the ceiling. The gun exploded and dust and splinters fell into the office. Moody hit the opposite wall as a girl outside screamed. He lurched forward a couple of steps, trying to bring his gun up again. Nash fired a second time and Moody jerked, spun face first into the wall and slid down slowly, leaving smears of blood on the drab wallpaper. He flopped onto his side in the hall and lay still.

  Nash got to his feet, unsteadily, smoking gun cocked again. Harmer was staring up at him, impressed by Clay’s speed with a gun.

  Nash stepped into the passage and saw Blondie running for the stairs. She had apparently fetched Moody as ordered but was now hightailing it out of the place after seeing him shot down. Nash closed the office door. He heard voices being raised in the saloon, wanting to know what all the shooting was about. He jammed a chair under the doorknob and turned back to face Harmer who was sitting up slowly, shaking his head. Clay walked over to him and nudged him lightly in the ribs with his boot.

  “Get up and into your chair,” he ordered, ignoring the urgent hammering on the door. Someone was yelling through the woodwork, wanting to know if Harmer was all right. Nash gestured with his gun barrel. “Tell ’em, Pig.’

  Harmer wiped an ooze of blood from his split lips and cleared his throat. “I’m okay, Lee. Keep away. It’ll all be straightened out.”

  He glanced up at Nash who nodded slowly. “All right, Harmer. Why’d you tell that whore to slip me a Mickey?”

  Harmer shook his head. “You got it wrong. I didn’t.” He held up his hands as Nash took a step forward, raising the gun barrel threateningly. “It’s the truth, Nash. Okay, I admit that I’ve used a Mickey now and then when some coot’s really loaded. But not with you. Hell, what would be the point? Shotgun guards don’t make no money.”

  Nash looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Maybe you had another reason for wanting me out.”

  Harmer looked genuinely puzzled. “Hell, man, I’d never laid eyes on you till last night. Why would I want you doped?”

  Nash looked at him hard.

  “The Wells Fargo depot was robbed last night.”

  “Yeah, it’s all over town. But I had nothin’ to do with it. Judas! You want proof? Ask Trace Hollis. We played poker clear through the night. And there was a banker, a storekeeper, one of my housemen—and a lawyer—to back that up.”

  “You employ a lot o’ creeps—and they ain’t too particular ’bout what they do.”

  Harmer’s mouth tightened. “Sure. I got a heap of men workin’ for me. Gals, too. But I never told any of ’em to go anywhere near that depot. Why would I want to rob it, anyway? Far as I know, there wasn’t much in there, besides a lot of old mail.”

  Nash studied the man’s battered face, not feeling so certain about his theory now as he had when he had busted in. “Where’s Ruby?” he asked suddenly.

  Harmer frowned. “Ruby?”

  Nash tapped him on top of the head with the gun barrel. “Quit stallin’.”

  The saloon man rubbed his aching head. “Ruby got her time and pulled out.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Check her room, then.”

  “Already have.”

  “So you know, so why ask? Look. She came into the poker room real early this mornin’—and asked for her time. But she had no money comin’, so I told her to clear out. That’s all I know. I went back to the cards. Haven’t seen her since. If she ain’t in her room—she’s gone, savvy?”

  “What about the Mickey Finn?”

  Harmer lifted his right hand solemnly as though swearing an oath. “If she did that, then it was her own idea.”

  Nash studied the man a little longer, then turned and headed for the door. As he wrenched the chair away from under the handle, Harmer spoke:

  “Nash. Don’t think this is finished.”

  The Wells Fargo man gave him one fin
al bleak look and went out into the passage.

  Five – The Nitro Trail

  Trace Hollis frowned as he sipped his coffee and looked across the table at the battered Nash.

  “Well, yeah, I got some recollection of Ruby comin’ in to Harmer,” he said slowly, rubbing at his temples. “But not much.” He grinned fleetingly. “Mebbe I should’ve seen the sawbones and got some of that stuff he gave you, Clay.”

  Detective Chief Jim Hume stared at Hollis. “Forget the comedy, Trace.”

  “Yeah. Well, like I said, I sort of recall Ruby comin’ in. Dunno if it was early in the night or later on. But if it was the early mornin’, then I might not remember at all. I was pretty high by that time. I was winnin’, and I’d been drinkin’ for hours.”

  “Harmer said he told her to quit,” Nash prodded.

  Hollis pursed his lips, and shook his head slowly. “Nope. Ain’t got a clear picture of it all, Clay, except I know she was there at some time. I got an idea she said somethin’ about you.” He tapped his fingers against the table edge, frowning thoughtfully. “Yeah. You’d passed out and she’d put you in her room.” He sighed and shrugged. “Sorry. That’s about it.”

  Nash nodded, face grim. He looked across at Hume. “Well, seems Harmer was likely tellin’ the truth.”

  “Seems that way,” Hume agreed unsmilingly. “You figure he might’ve been behind the robbery, Clay?”

  Nash shrugged. “It was just a theory. Figured to try it out on him, but didn’t get any reaction worthwhile.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be Harmer,” Hollis said. “He’s a mighty hard case and so on, but no one could’ve known about the big payroll in that safe overnight. Far as folks knew, the stage was just comin’ here to collect an old sack of mail from the riverboat. I don’t think he’d give a hoot about that.”

  Hume thought about it but said nothing. He glanced back to Nash. “No trace of the female?”

  Nash shook his head. “Only thing leavin’ town was the stage—and she wasn’t on it. If she quit, she took a hoss or a buggy.”

  “Check the livery?”