Clay Nash 1

by Brett Waring

  Nash shrugged. “Only did what I’m bein’ paid for.”

  “Company likes to give their guards some incentive. I’m authorized to pay you a thousand dollars, and present you with a silver pocket watch, suitably engraved, and a personal Winchester, model of your choice, as well as a sidearm.”

  “Hell, that’s incentive, all right!”

  “You did good, Nash. First hold-up and fightin’ all the way.”

  “Had some help from Roarin’ Dick Magee.”

  Hume smiled faintly. “No chance of forgettin’ Roarin’ Dick! He wouldn’t let us. And he’ll be rewarded, too. You see, Nash, Wells Fargo’s built its reputation on their guarantee to replace any monies lost by hold-up or theft of any kind. You save the express box, you save the company money. Only right you should get some reward.”

  “Well, I’m obliged.” He looked at Hume closely, and reckoned that few people would believe that such an unobtrusive man was Wells Fargo’s Chief of Detectives. In fact, James Hume was not only an able investigator but one of the top criminologists of his day and he was one of the first-ever detectives to use the study of ballistics to aid in the conviction of criminals.

  “We keep our eye on promisin’ guards, Nash,” Hume said abruptly. “We’ve got a pretty good team of detectives, and that’s why we’ve got such a good recovery record from hold-ups. You might figure that’s a crazy statement since Black Bart’s been robbin’ our coaches for five years. But he’s the smartest hombre we’ve struck yet. Luckily, the others ain’t as good at their game as he is, but he’ll make a mistake some day and I’ll get him ... I’ll get him.”

  In fact, it was to be another three years before Hume finally tracked down Black Bart, through a laundry mark, in San Francisco, and that was the end of the man who’d become known as the ‘Bloodless Bandit.’

  Hume left Warbonnet and Nash thought about what he’d inferred: that Nash could be taken onto the crack detective and undercover agent team if he made as good a showing in the future as he had done on that first hold-up. It sounded like a good job, with top pay, an element of danger, a chance for mental as well as physical activity. It appealed to him, but no firm offer had been made him yet. In any case, he sure didn’t want to leave this neck of the woods while there was a chance he could tangle with Cash Matthews and Vern Dekker.

  Wells Fargo had done everything the legal way: now it was up to Matthews, but Nash knew the rancher would pay little or no attention to a Court Order issued as far away as Austin. To Matthews it would be simply a matter of Wells Fargo paying him what he wanted to use the right-of-way or, they’d sure find it one hell of a lot cheaper in the long run to go round the long way.

  Six – “Thirty Miles of Hell!”

  THE CONCORD rolled along the flat trail of the disputed right-of-way through the hot Texas sun. The passengers, driver and guard all felt the difference as the coach travelled over this comparatively smooth stretch. It was much more comfortable than the jolting, swaying and rolling of the mountain trails, or the curving roads that ran through the boulder fields and rough mountain passes.

  Here was land that had been grazed by beef cattle for over thirty years, and for buffalo for thousands of years before that. The land was worn flat and smooth, any rocks either buried in dust build-up or crumbled beneath countless thousands of cloven hoofs over the years. With the bodywork swinging on the leather thoroughbraces. the noise level of the iron tires cut down immensely on the flat, the passengers were lulled into a kind of doze that was welcomed by their aching limbs after the long miles and days and nights of seemingly endless travel.

  This particular coach wasn’t carrying anything of great value in the express box: the guard was along for the peace of mind of the passengers more than anything else. It had been an uneventful journey so far and he, too, was lulled into a dreamy state, nodding off on his seat beside the driver who let the horses make their own speed here. This flat strip ran for thirty long miles and was an easy route that required little attention to the team. The driver almost lounged in his seat, holding the reins loosely in his hands.

  The guard and driver all but jumped out of their seats atop the stage as there came a sudden volley of gunshots close by, followed by wild, ringing yells. They looked around to see a bunch of maybe a dozen cowboys sweeping down on the coach from the rises either side of the trail, guns shooting into the air. The guard lifted his shotgun, not sure what was going on, his brain befuddled from his doze. The driver was slow at whipping up the team and the cowboys swept alongside, down either side of the coach, yelling, shooting. The passengers were at the windows, white-faced, some thinking they were caught in the middle of an Indian attack.

  The cowboys closed in on the coach and one swung aboard the luggage rack at the rear. He hung there precariously by one hand, using the other hand to untie the lashings of the canvas covering the passengers’ baggage. When the canvas flapped free, he used the same hand to start heaving off wooden suitcases and leather bags, carpetbags, packages, everything.

  Meanwhile, two others were at the teams, leaning from saddles with hunting knives, cutting the traces and reins. The guard stood up with his shotgun raised threateningly. A rider dropped a rope noose over him, took a quick turn around his saddle horn and yanked back on the reins. The guard was snatched from the seat and dropped heavily to the trail. When he tried to get up, the rope-wielding rider rammed his mount into him, knocking him down again, breathless.

  The team was free of the harness now and running out ahead of the coach. The driver frantically released the reins before he could be dragged with them, applied the brake. The Concord swayed and jolted and skidded, lurched to one side but flopped back to an even keel. The cowboys milled around the coach, two more climbing onto it and heaving down the luggage from the roof. They burst it open, threw the contents all over the trail. The passengers protested and one man went for his gun. He was promptly gun whipped and kicked by two of the riders. A woman screamed and fainted clear away. The others were hauled out at gunpoint and their clothes ripped and they were ordered to take off their boots. Then they were driven back along the trail at gunpoint, dancing to the tune of the six-shooters as bullets kicked dust around their feet. The riders laughed, reloaded their guns and rode off ...

  “Hell, I can’t be responsible for what happens to your stages crossin’ that strip,” Cash Matthews protested when Walt Garth and a Wells Fargo representative went to see him about the incident. “My men’ve been told not to interfere with your coaches on that strip. Some of ’em have worked for me for a long while, a few left over from my father’s day. They don’t like to see the ranch bein’ used for a public highway any more than I do. They get a bit het-up about it.” He shrugged, smiling faintly. “I can’t help it if they figure to do somethin’ off their own bat by way of protest. Fact, I wouldn’t even know which men it would’ve been. They all claim they was doin’ the jobs I’d set ’em at the time. So I guess it’s up to you gents to prove it was actually M-Bar-M men, ain’t it?”

  Garth and the Wells Fargo representative weren’t in the least amused or taken in by Matthews’ spiel but they knew they couldn’t prove anything against the man.

  Two weeks later, there was another ‘incident’. This time, it involved the stage coming down from Denver and, once again, it was on what had become known as the Strip.

  The Concord rolled along, almost across the Strip, with less than five miles to go before it left the flat behind and began the rough trail back to Warbonnet over the mountain range. All the way along, the guard, driver and passengers, too, had been alert for signs of trouble but though they’d passed two bunches of cowpokes working the range with steers, there’d been nothing to become alarmed about. Now everyone was beginning to relax as the end of the Strip drew near.

  They could hear the bawling of cattle nearby and looked around casually, expecting to see a couple of cowpokes driving a few stragglers back over the range towards the main herd they’d passed several miles back. But
they rose out of their seats at the terrifying sight that greeted them: coming smack down the middle of the trail, as the coach rounded a bend screened by timber, was a bunch of maybe two hundred steers, driven by six or seven cowpokes. But they weren’t travelling at a leisurely pace: they were being driven hard, at a run and, as the coach came in sight, the cowboys drew their six-guns and fired into the air, beginning to yell and shout.

  The cattle lurched forward in one great wedge and in an instant broke into a fully-fledged stampede, charging straight towards the oncoming Concord. The driver stood on the brake, yanking back on the reins. The guard looked at the stampede and then at the driver, not knowing what to do. Passengers began yelling and thumping on the coachwork. The driver worked frantically to turn the team and make a run for it back the other way.

  “You ain’t gonna make it, you blamed fool!” yelled the panicky guard and he leapt from his seat and made a frantic run for the high ground at the side of the trail, heading for the closest tree, his duty and shotgun forgotten.

  The driver cussed and swore and fought the team and the passengers, too, were quitting the Concord now, running desperately for the timber as the bawling, wild-eyed longhorns bore down on the stage. The driver sawed with the reins, lashed with the whip, but he was losing concentration. All he could see was that bunch of steers thundering down on him.

  “The hell with it!” he yelled abruptly, leapt down, pulled the shackle pin that held the swingle-bar to the coach body and made a run for the trees as the team pulled free and made their wild-eyed, squealing escape from the thundering herd ...

  The Concord shuddered under the impact of the stampeding steers cannoning into it, brushing past, horns gouging wood and paintwork. Then it tilted and finally crashed over onto its side. Wood splintered and steers bawled and leapt and jumped through the smashed panels. The cowboys continued to yell and shoot into the air ...

  “What the hell you mean?” demanded Matthews, red-faced as he was confronted by Garth and the Wells Fargo man. “My men didn’t start any stampede! The report I got says your blamed coach spooked my herd. It was your driver trying to break some sort of record, crackin’ his whip like it was fourth of July! Them steers were bein’ brought down from wild country for brandin’. They were half-maverick and they spook easy. It was your own damn crew that started it. And I aim to sue your damn stageline. Had to shoot seven steers, they was so badly busted up from crashin’ into your coach. Now get the hell out of here and don’t come botherin’ me with all your troubles. If it’s so tough travelin’ that right-of-way, don’t use it. Simple as that!”

  Which, of course, was Matthews’ idea in the first place. But Garth and the Wells Fargo representative knew he’d played it cunningly again. They couldn’t prove his men had started the stampede and they couldn’t prove that the cowboys had urged the steers on and hadn’t actually been trying to catch up with the herd in an effort to turn it ...

  “Hell’s bells, Clay,” Garth said to Nash in one of the few times the shotgun guard had heard the man cuss, “I can see Matthews’ plan: he aims to turn that right-of-way into thirty miles of sheer hell! And he’s succeeding. Passengers have spread the word. We’re losing to the railroads, despite our cheaper rates.”

  “Sounds like Matthews’ brain at work,” Nash opined. “He’s smart. You won’t pin anythin’ on him. You can bring in the Rangers and you still won’t nail him. You can grab his men but he’ll get ’em off with a good lawyer or he’ll pay ’em enough to take the blame on themselves.”

  “Well, damn it, we’ve got to do something, Clay!” Garth said, pacing his office, restless with the worry and frustration of it all. “Wells Fargo are beginning to think that they’ve been sold a pup and they’ve still got a loophole to drop our deal if they want to. I suspect that’s why they’re delaying final settlement. They’ll move heaven and earth legally, but they steer around shooting wars and that’s where this one’s heading, unless we do something to stop it. You know Matthews, have more reason than any of us to hate him, Clay. Have you got any ideas?”

  Nash thought on it a spell, then asked, “When’s the next stage due to use the Strip?”

  Garth consulted the schedules on his desk. “Friday. Three days from now. Why? You want to be on it as guard?”

  Nash shook his head and saw the surprise on Garth’s face. “Nope. But I reckon it could pay off if I took a few good men and we rode ahead of the stage and sort of cleared the way.” Garth frowned, not fully understanding.

  “Look,” Nash explained, “both times, Matthews’ men have been in position ready and waitin’ for the stage to appear, right? That means they know the schedules. How they know, I wouldn’t worry about just yet. But you can bet they’ll be preparin’ somethin’ for Friday’s stage. Not too early, but just before it’s due to cross the Strip. There are a few places where they can set things up without being seen. Country rises either side of the trail, it passes through two medium-sized canyons, flat all the way, I grant you, but it’s the country around the trail you’ve got to watch. If I take, say, three men, and we come in on the trail from this end, working towards the stage, instead of ridin’ in the same direction, we should come across whatever Matthews had set up before it shows. We ought to be able to take care of the trouble before it starts.”

  Garth nodded slowly, lips pursed. “Sounds like a good idea, Clay ... But dangerous.”

  “Everythin’ to do with Matthews is dangerous,” Nash pointed out, “and it’s as much for myself as the Company that I’m doing it.”

  Garth finally agreed and Nash went to select his men, gathering up his own fine firearms which had been presented to him at a formal ceremony by Jim Hume a couple of weeks earlier.

  The silver watch had been an English import of Waterlane Preston’s, a heavy, durable and accurate timepiece on a thick-linked silver chain, engraved with his name and the date as well as ‘For Outstanding Service To The Company.’ He’d chosen a Winchester ’73 model in .44-40 caliber and a Colt Peacemaker in the same caliber. Garth had thrown in the holster rig and rifle scabbard. These things, together with the thousand dollars, had made Nash a Wells Fargo man right down the line. Any company who appreciated that its employees laid their lives on the line when they tried to protect company property was fine in Nash’s book, and he was willing to make extra efforts to help them out.

  The men he chose were experienced guards who’d survived several gunfights with road agents and weren’t afraid to trade lead with hard cases. There was the oldster of the group, ‘Pop’ Moran, in his mid-forties, father of nine children; then there was Dakota Haines, a grim-faced, taciturn man who carried a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun on a dog-clip swivel at his waistband, and Clyde Brown, a smiling young ranny in his early twenties who’d already been eligible for two bounties paid out by the company for his skill in thwarting two hold-up attempts.

  Together with Nash they made up a tough bunch and they were prepared to shoot it out with the M-Bar-M hard cases any time at all.

  Nash led the way to the Strip. He felt memories come flooding back as the familiar country came up. He’d ridden this range many times when he’d worked for Matthews, long before he’d drifted around the country and then came back to homestead his own land. He knew every foot of the Strip, having rounded-up mavericks there. He broke his group up, sending Clyde and Dakota onto the left-hand side while he and Pop rode the right-hand country. There were stands of trees, clumps of boulders, the high walls of the two canyons, and land beyond the slopes that rose either side of the Strip trail, all to be checked out.

  They rode, alert for guards from M-Bar-M, rifles free of scabbards, the butts resting against their thighs, but Matthews didn’t have guards placed. They saw some of the ranch hands in the distance going about their chores but, after checking out the slopes, one canyon and several stands of trees, they’d found nothing.

  “Stage can’t be far off now,” opined Clyde Brown, shading his eyes, searching for the telltale dust cloud.
“’Fact, there it is. Must be ... what you reckon? Three miles down the Strip?”

  “’Bout that,” Nash allowed, standing in his stirrups. “We’d better check that other canyon. And fast. Could be the stage is a mite closer to it than we are.”

  He signaled to Pop and Dakota and they joined up, rode fast down the trail towards the other canyon where Nash figured there could be trouble brewing.

  He was right. This was the spot chosen by Matthews for his little bit of merry hell. Nash and his men veered off the trail before they came to the canyon, took to the grassy rise that lifted towards the canyon rim, again splitting up. The thick grass deadened the sounds of their mounts and they came out above a scene that had them levering shells into their rifles’ breeches. Below, on a broken ledge, Vern Dekker supervised half a dozen men piling rocks and deadfalls onto a crude log platform that had been built out over the trail, propped up by supports that already had ropes tied to their wedges, ready to be pulled away and send the whole caboodle crashing down across the canyon trail.

  The stagecoach was within sight now, lumbering on, oblivious to danger.

  Whether or not the landslide was meant to land on the coach or merely to block the trail, Nash didn’t know but he did know there was no time to lose. He signaled to Dakota for him and Pop to come on over and then, with a brief glance to make sure Clyde was with him, he dismounted and started down the slope, rifle at the ready.

  He felt loose stones starting to slide away beneath his boots and knew Dekker and his crew would be warned in a few seconds. So he propped, braced himself, and fired the Winchester into the air. The men below whipped around, looking upslope, going for their guns. Nash levered and triggered as Clyde’s rifle blasted and the man beside Dekker crashed over backwards, his right arm flopping at his side. Dekker had his six-gun out as Nash fired again and his bullet was a lucky shot, striking the ramrod’s Colt in the cylinder and smashing it from the big man’s hand. The others held their fire as Pop and Dakota came galloping up the slope.