Clay Nash 8

by Brett Waring

  Nash looked at the white-faced girl and saw that she was as surprised as he was that she had hit her target. He brought up the Winchester and put a bullet through Cherokee’s head, swung the smoking barrel up into a tree as he caught a flash of metal and color. An outlaw was just swinging into a fork of the big tree when Nash nailed him dead center with the last shot in the rifle.

  The man plummeted down without a sound—his body sinking into the ooze of the quicksand. They watched, fascinated as he gradually disappeared beneath the surface, only a hand protruding for a spell, the clawed fingers seeming to beckon.

  Nash swallowed. He must have placed his own boots within inches of that ooze only minutes beforehand.

  He jerked back abruptly, his hand going to his face, the Winchester dropping. Liz Garrett gasped as he stumbled back and fell to one knee. She saw the blood oozing between his fingers as he shook his head. He waved her back when she started to reach out towards him.

  “It’s nothin’,” he gasped, pulling his hand away and looking at the blood on it. There was a shallow groove cut across his face, bleeding some, but not deep enough to worry him. Still the shock of the lead just grazing his cheekbone had numbed one side of his head and he was having difficulty seeing with that eye. Unfortunately, it was the side he had turned towards Nitro Mantell. He wasn’t aware that the outlaw was charging forward in a last desperate attempt to get Nash—until the girl gasped and swung back wildly, falling off-balance in her hurry. All Clay had was a hazy vision of Mantell coming across the swamp like an express train; his short, thick form battering through the brush, rifle cradled across his barrel chest and teeth bared in wild determination.

  Nash’s rifle was empty. The girl was still fighting for balance. Mantell was almost on them. The Wells Fargo man drove down for his Colt but his hand was too slippery with his own blood and he fumbled the grip. Mantell came racing up the small rise, bringing the rifle around and down—the hammer already cocked. Nash scooped up his own rifle and swung it by the end of the barrel. Mantell fired but he was already hauling up and trying to dodge the heavy, brass butt of Nash’s Winchester.

  The rifle smashed into Nitro’s gun and knocked it askew—the butt clipping him on the jaw, sending him stumbling. Nash took a fresh grip on his Winchester and brought the butt crashing down across Mantell’s hunched shoulders, driving the man to his knees. Nash kicked out and the outlaw floundered back, grabbing at his face. He rolled away, and brought up short against a rock. He slowly took his hands down from his face and Liz Garrett rammed the muzzle of her Smith and Wesson against his temple. She hissed in his ear.

  “Freeze.”

  Mantell froze, rolling his eyes to try to get a look at the girl. Nash wiped his bloody hand and pulled out his Colt. The hammer going back to full cock made a chilling sound and Mantell swiftly lifted his hands to show that he didn’t want to fight any more.

  “Should’ve stayed put, Mantell. Might’ve foxed us dodging about in the swamp.”

  Mantell smiled. “No way. Buckskin was careful not to give us an out. The mongrel had us trapped.”

  Nash smiled. “He’s dead. Told me some mighty interestin’ stuff ’fore he croaked—mostly ’bout you, and Squirrel Creek.” He glanced coldly at the girl.

  They both knew Buckskin had told them almost nothing: that it was a ruse aimed at loosening Nitro’s tongue.

  Liz Garrett flushed a little, then tossed her head defiantly.

  “Never mind Squirrel Creek. I want the mail sack from Red Rapids.”

  Mantell chuckled, then glanced at Clay. “You Wells Fargo?”

  “All the way.”

  Mantell ran a tongue over his lips. “Squirrel Creek?” He shook his head. “You can’t pin that one on me, mister. I wasn’t even there.”

  Nash couldn’t help showing disbelief.

  Mantell shook his head again. “No siree. You ain’t gonna pin that massacre on my bunch.” He glanced towards his dead compadres and winced. “No sir—not on my bunch, you ain’t. And you ain’t pinnin’ it on me, either, friend.”

  “I reckon we are, Mantell. Your brand was stickin’ out a mile. We got you cold—friend—and there ain’t anythin’ you can do about it.”

  “No, damn it, no! I ain’t the only one to use nitro. I—I been nowheres near Squirrel Creek. I been south o’ Denver and I ain’t never heard tell of no Crazy Catlow hombre. Must’ve been another bunch. Hell, why you think me and my men were hidin’ out here? We knew no goddamn lawman would ever believe we didn’t pull that massacre. They’d’ve pinned it on us cold. Just as you’re tryin’ to do right now.”

  Nash frowned. Mantell was sweating and he was afraid, desperate for Nash to believe he had had nothing to do with the Squirrel Creek affair. Nash wasn’t quite so sure as he had been at first. Mantell, after all, hadn’t actually been sighted during the robbery. But then, every outlaw he had ever tracked down had protested his innocence when he knew there was a hangman’s rope waiting for him.

  Liz Garrett suddenly pressed her gun barrel hard against Mantell’s temple. “I ain’t foolin’, Mantell,” she hissed, “I want to know about the mail you lifted at Red Rapids.”

  “What you tryin’ to pin on me now?”

  “Don’t try bein’ funny. You robbed the depot and you damn well know it,” the girl said, ignoring Nash as he made to speak. “You broke in Thursday night and blew the safe. You took a whole heap of stuff, but mainly—’far as I’m concerned—you took those blasted mailbags. I want ’em, and I want ’em real bad.”

  Both Mantell and Nash seemed surprised at Liz Garrett’s vicious tone.

  Mantell spoke quietly. “Now then, ma’am, you been on quite a spell ’bout mailbags—but we paid no mind much to them. Fact is, little girl, we only grabbed one—far as I recall.”

  Liz Garrett stiffened. “That’s it. That’s the one. What’d you do with it?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know. We didn’t find no dinero inside that little old sack—so we sort of dropped it off somewheres.”

  “You what?” Liz cried and Mantell jerked back, thinking, for a moment, that she was going to pull the trigger.

  “You admit pulling the Red Rapids job then?” Nash asked swiftly.

  Mantell ran a tongue over his lips. “Weren’t no one killed there, was there?”

  Nash shook his head briefly and he saw almost a look of relief come to Mantell’s face. He all but smiled. “Well, I reckon you got me cold-decked. But, listen, you won’t get the money. Buckskin took it and was s’posed to hide it out. Now, you say Buckskin’s dead—so I guess the cash’s gone for keeps.”

  “More likely you got it hidden so you can come back to it some time. But you’ll be an old man ’fore that happens, Mantell. You got some prison time to put in.”

  Mantell shrugged. “I’m no killer. And I’d rather go up for Red Rapids than Squirrel Creek. It don’t make sense, no how. If I robbed the depot Thursday night I couldn’t’ve done the Squirrel Creek deal ’cause I wouldn’t’ve had time to get there—not with all them fine lawmen about.” He gave Nash a crooked smile. “Fact is, Mr. Agent Man, I pulled the Red Rapids job just to get enough money to lie low. Sorta till the ruckus died down. Now, you bein’ a smart, upstanding lawman should be able to understand that.”

  “You sure found out about the Squirrel Creek massacre fast.”

  The outlaw shrugged. “Word travels—and I got friends who know how to send a telegraph.”

  Nash held his gaze until Mantell looked away. Then Nash looked at the tight-faced girl.

  “We’ll get him back to Red Rapids.”

  She ignored Nash and jammed her Smith and Wesson into Mantell’s face, causing him to rear back. “Damn you. I want that mailbag.”

  Nash grabbed her arm and yanked her bodily upright. “Ease up. This ain’t your affair. You ain’t even s’posed to be here. And you damn near blew the whole deal by not doin’ as you were told!”

  She tore her arm free. “I saved your neck.”

 
“Pure luck,” Nash snapped. “Don’t alter the fact you didn’t go for help when you were s’posed to. Now, don’t nose in again, Miss Garrett. I’m tellin’ you.”

  He glared coldly at her and suddenly spun and lashed out with his gun barrel, laying the flat alongside Mantell’s head as the man started to gather himself for a lunge at Nash. The outlaw grunted and fell back, stunned, semiconscious. He writhed on the ground, holding his head. Nash turned to the startled girl again.

  “We’re getting out of here now and takin’ him with us. I ain’t all that sure he’s the hombre we want, but back he goes. Talk all you like about that mailbag—but do it later. He’s got a whole stack of answerin’ to do first.”

  Liz Garrett’s mouth was set tightly but she saw the cold determination on Nash’s face and knew he wasn’t past knocking her cold. She nodded jerkily and holstered her gun.

  “All right. But you make sure I get to see him back at Red Rapids. I want to know where he dumped that mail.”

  “I’d be kinda interested myself,” Nash said and nudged the groggy Mantell to his feet. He shoved the man roughly. “Let’s go, mister. You got a lot of talking to do, one way and another.”

  Holding his head still, Mantell stumbled away with Nash’s gun only inches from his spine. The girl walked along stiffly a few paces behind.

  Eight – Raw Deal

  Jim Hume sat listening as Clay Nash related what had happened in the swamp. Across the room, Trace Hollis fidgeted in his chair, stirring restlessly, gazing at the floor.

  “Lew Hackett’s got him in a cell now,” Nash concluded and touched a finger gingerly to the bullet gouge on his cheek. His neck was caked with dried blood and part of his shirt was stiff with it. His clothes were mud-spattered and torn for he had not yet had time to wash or change. “He still claims he was nowhere near Squirrel Creek.”

  “But he admits to robbin’ this place, eh?” Hollis asked. “You said he admitted to that, didn’t you, Clay?”

  Nash looked soberly at Hollis as he nodded. “Yeah—I said that.”

  Hume frowned. “You don’t sound as if you’re too sure about it.”

  Nash made a hesitant gesture. “I just don’t know, Jim. There’s something—fishy—about Mantell. I dunno. Can’t put my finger on it. But I’ll tell you this, I couldn’t get any details of the depot robbery out of him. And, come to think of it, all he’s confessed to is what Liz Garrett told him. If I could figure it out, I’d say—Aw, hell, it’s too stupid.”

  Hollis was sitting tensely in his chair, frowning at Nash. Hume looked perplexed, too, and motioned to Nash to continue.

  “Go on, Clay. You know I respect hunches.”

  Nash still hesitated. Finally, he began his theory. “Well, seemed to me he kind of admitted to this robbery sort of—blind. You can’t get him to talk much about it. He won’t say how much was in the payroll, claims the breed took it and hid it in the swamp. Of course, I killed Buckskin—so there’s no chance of checkin’ that out. The mail sack was dumped, he reckons, after goin’ through it to check if there was any money in it.”

  “Well, hell, that’s normal procedure for outlaws,” Hollis said. “What’s the worry, Clay? He admits to the robbery, then nail him with it!”

  “Sure. Take his story and the company’s out ten thousand dollars in replacement money for the payroll,” Hume said grimly. He nodded to Nash. “I’ll question Mantell myself. You follow through on your hunch, Clay. There’re a few queer things about that depot robbery. Not the least bein’ why that female, Ruby Dow, was strangled.”

  “Mightn’t’ve had anythin’ to do with it at all,” Hollis said. “I mean, she was a saloon tramp. Dealt with all kinds o’ scum.”

  “But she asked Harmer for her time,” Hume said. “Or so he claims.”

  Hollis frowned, then shrugged. “I figure if Mantell says he pulled the depot robbery, then there’s no big deal. We charge him with it and that’s that.”

  “Not quite,” Hume said, grim-faced. “Like I said, there’s the recovery of the money for one thing, and I’d like you to work some on that, Clay. That leaves the Squirrel Creek massacre with one big question mark; who in hell pulled it—if it wasn’t Mantell’s bunch?”

  “Well, you’re gonna have a hard time provin’ anythin’ against him on that score, Jim,” Nash said. “His bunch is dead. Crazy Catlow’s dead. He was never actually seen. We got some kinda evidence—but if he insists he did the Red Rapids thing, then he couldn’t’ve done the other. The law was huntin’ him miles away. And he was spotted on the run a few times.”

  Hume waved that aside. “He was spotted in seven different States. But that’s nothin’. But how ’bout if he’s admittin’ to the Red Rapids deal—just so he won’t be saddled with Squirrel Creek? It’s a lot more serious and he’d get a hangman’s noose for sure. This other way, he has a chance of gettin’ a stiff prison term. Sure, he’s wanted for other things in other States and maybe he’ll get the death penalty on some of those charges. But it’ll be months before he goes through all the courts that want a piece of him. He’ll be alive all that time. And don’t forget he’s escaped from prison before.”

  “Which is likely why he claims he don’t know where the money is from the depot,” Hollis added swiftly. “I reckon he pulled the robbery here and he aims to break out and get to that payroll money later. That’s why he ain’t talkin’ about it, makin’ you fellers think exactly the way you are thinkin’.”

  Nash pursed his lips, glanced at Hume and raised his eyebrows. “Trace could have something there, Jim.”

  Hume was still doubtful, but willing to admit there could be some truth in it as a possibility. “Thing is, we got Mantell behind bars right now. I’ll go see him and we’ll work on him. Meanwhile, Clay, get yourself cleaned up and so on. Meet me back here in a couple of hours and we’ll figure a plan of action.”

  Nash nodded and Hollis stood, stretching. “Okay. I’ll get one of my clerks to handle things at the depot.” Hume gave him a deadpan look. “Why?”

  Hollis blinked. “While I come back here in a couple of hours like you said.”

  Hume shook his head. “Not you. Clay. You’re out of this, Trace. You’re depot manager. Clay’s the detective.”

  Hollis flushed and his muscles knotted along his jaw line. His fists balled up down at his sides as he glared at Hume with narrowed eyes. He turned to Nash and spoke tightly. “Sure. I forgot. You did a fine job, Clay.” He threw Hume one last bleak look and stormed out of the room. Nash frowned at the door as it trembled in its frame. He moved his gaze to Hume.

  “That was kinda rough on him, Jim.”

  Hume shook his head. “He’s kinda sensitive, that’s all. Still wants to be the big detective.”

  “And you won’t give him another chance?”

  “He doesn’t deserve it, Clay. He’s done nothing to make me change my mind about him. As a depot manager, Trace is fine. As an agent, I’ve got to give him the thumbs down. Aw, sure, he’s a trier, but that’s not good enough in this game as you know. Most times, you only get one shot at things. You foul things up first time round and that’s it. I figure Trace Hollis is the kind who’d go off half-cocked and foul up too often.” His eyes and voice hardened a shade. “Anyway, that’s my view.”

  Nash nodded slowly. “You’re the boss.” He started to turn towards the door but changed his mind and faced Hume again. “What is it that don’t set right with you about this depot robbery, Jim? There’s something. I can tell.”

  “Still tryin’ to put my finger on it. And if I get the same impression as you about Mantell lying—I just might have a theory.”

  Hume walked to the door and held it open for Clay. “Clean up. We’ll talk about it later.”

  Nash nodded and went out.

  ~*~

  Sheriff Lew Hackett was against letting Liz Garrett talk to Mantell but was persuaded by Nash. After all, he thought, there could be nothing to worry about with Mantell in a cell.

  Hackett, an o
ld man, wanting only his last years to be peaceful, had shrugged. He didn’t intend to argue about it. If Wells Fargo wanted to more or less take charge, then it was okay with him—long as they took any kickbacks that might arise, of course. All he wanted to do was see out his term of office so that he qualified for the small pension promised by the citizens of Red Rapids. He was too old to exert himself much, and he didn’t have much faith in his only deputy. For instance, he knew the man took money from Tex Harmer to look the other way when Harmer wanted to get around a town ordinance. He didn’t blame the deputy, there had been times when he was younger when he had succumbed to temptation, too. It was hard not to in his kind of job. Only the hardnoses, the obstinate, puritanical types like Wyatt Earp ever got through their term of office without taking bribes of some sort.

  Hackett was dozing in his front office, unconcerned about the girl talking to Mantell back in the cell block. He had the keys and the girl’s gun and there was no reason why she would try to slip Mantell a weapon or help him to escape, anyway. If anything, she probably wanted to see him hanged.

  But Hackett would have been surprised at what was being said only a few yards from where he dozed.

  Mantell had cunningly pumped the girl and had been told all the information he needed about the Red Rapids robbery. He also gleaned how desperate she was to prove her brother’s innocence. He was shrewd enough to see that he could use this girl to his own advantage. Her own preoccupation with getting her hands on that mail sack tended to blind her to everything else. Mantell aimed to cash in on this. He looked at her pinched face through the bars and took a brief turn around the cramped quarters of the cell, teeth tugging at his bottom lip.

  “I can see how that mailbag’s important to you, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Been thinkin’ hard—wrackin’ my brains about it. I think I know where Cherokee got rid of it now.”

  Liz Garrett gripped the bars and stared at him, not daring to speak.

  “Yeah,” Mantell went on thoughtfully. “I seem to recollect we were ridin’ through Carbine Canyon, after we’d camped in the sierras. That was where we’d gone through the mail and taken out the money. Yeah. Mitch tossed the bag to Cherokee and said to toss it away. But Cherokee said no. It had to be hid prop’ly. If the posse found the bag, they’d know they were on the right trail, and we wanted to go to ground. He said he knew a good place to hide it in Carbine Canyon.”