Clay Nash 1

by Brett Waring

  Nine – New Gun in the Southwest

  CLAY NASH rode the big chestnut slowly, carefully, for now he knew he was on M-Bar-M range.

  When the shot came, he was surprised only because the bullet droned overhead. He put the chestnut off the trail and stopped it behind a cedar, levering a shell into his Winchester’s breech, firing a snapshot at the rocks where he reckoned the shot had come from. He heard the bullet ricochet and then there were four more shots and bark ripped off the cedar trunk and sprayed his shoulders. He spun about in the saddle, levering, and saw two men with leveled rifles stepping out of the brush.

  “Lift ’em!” one man commanded. “Slow and easy ... and hold that there rifle forward of the receiver, man.”

  Knowing the guards were all around him, Nash did as he was ordered, sliding his hand forward over the brass receiver of the rifle, away from the lever and trigger. He held it aloft as the men came forward slowly, rifles at the ready. Two more men appeared on the trail, coming out from the rocks where he’d judged the first shot to come from. They closed in slowly and one man came close enough to lift the Colt out of his holster. He was ordered to hold the rifle by the end of the barrel and then to hand it, butt-forward, to the man who’d taken his six-gun. Nash complied silently, waiting, knowing that someone would recognize him soon.

  But it seemed like they’d already recognized him and just weren’t the talkative kind. The man who’d been giving all the orders, a ’breed Mex whom Nash was later to know as ‘Pascale’ said to one of his companions, a short man with only one ear, “Howie, get the hosses. We’ll take Senor Nash up to the house. The jefe will want to see him ... Carlos, tie his hands to the saddle horn.”

  Nash stiffened as a swarthy man started forward, shaking loose some rawhide thongs from his belt.

  “Don’t try anything, senor,” Pascale warned quietly. “We do not yet want you dead, but to resist could be painful ... Very, very painful ... ”

  Nash looked grim as he allowed Carlos to lash his wrists to the saddle horn. Ten minutes later, the chestnut was being led towards the distant M-Bar-M ranch house by Pascale. Carlos and his pards remained on guard. The ’breed rode with a cocked pistol in his hand, the same one that held the reins of Nash’s horse. The barrel was pointed at Nash and he had no illusions about what would happen if he tried to escape ... which would be a loco move anyway, with hands tied, and no firearms into the bargain.

  Before they reached the big main house, two more riders joined them from other guard stations and the ’breed sent one man on ahead to carry the news to Cash Matthews.

  When they came into the ranch yard, Matthews was waiting on the porch, smoking a cigarillo, wearing a low-slung gun rig and leaning on an awning post as he watched Nash approach slowly. Smoke curled up around Matthews’ head and he folded his arms, the cigarillo burning with a red tip between his fingers.

  “Ride in close to the porch where I can talk with him,” he called to the ’breed.

  Pascale kicked the chestnut in closer to the porch and Nash found he was only about a head taller than Matthews in this position because of the height of the porch. The rancher stared at him coldly, then his lips moved.

  “Good to see you again, Clay,” he said.

  “Reckon I’ll take that with a grain of salt,” Nash said and Matthews laughed harshly.

  Suddenly, the cigarillo stabbed down onto Nash’s lashed hands and he writhed in pain as Matthews ground the red tip into his flesh. The ’breed grabbed the restless chestnut and pressed it back against the porch rails so it couldn’t jump away. Nash bit down on his lip at the pain of the burn and Matthews grinned up at him.

  “Now I got a whole box of these cigarillos inside, Nash,” he said coldly. “You gimme the answers I want and maybe I won’t have to light up any more. Savvy?”

  Nash nodded, sweating.

  “What in hell you doin’ here?” Matthews asked bluntly. “And don’t gimme any hogwash! I get the truth or I use you as an ashtray. Savvy?”

  “Got nothin’ to hide. Was ridin’ in openly when your crew jumped me.”

  “That’s what I want to know about. Why would you be loco enough to ride openly onto M-Bar-M land? You ain’t exactly welcome here.”

  “Simple enough. I figured you might hide me out.”

  Matthews frowned and exchanged a glance with the Mexican ’breed. He was plainly puzzled and Nash waited. The ’breed, growing impatient, cuffed Nash across the face, and he reeled, almost fell from the saddle. Matthews reached out almost lazily and pushed Nash upright again.

  “Take it from there, mister,” he said grimly. “And don’t play me for a fool!”

  “No mind to. I’ve had a goddamn raw deal from Garth and Wells Fargo over this kidnappin’. They blame me, thanks to Dekker tellin’ ’em with his dyin’ breath that I helped set it up!”

  Matthews laughed. “Vern sure did hate your guts! But go on.”

  “Well, hell, Garth was mighty upset about losin’ both his daughter and his cash. Dekker said he blamed me, reckoned I was in cahoots with Dekker, and you and Dekker shot me to cut me out of a share. Anyways, we argued and he tried to have a couple of his men toss me in a cell while he sent for the Rangers. I had to kind of knock ’em around some and throw lead around so’s they’d keep their heads down. I quit town with buckshot whistlin’ round my ears but shook the posse long enough to get to Iron Ridge. Had to steal this hoss and some grub and shells to get across the badlands. Then your men jumped me.”

  Matthews thought about what Nash had told him, plainly suspicious. “Why would you head here, of all places?”

  Nash shrugged. “Was originally aimin’ for the southwest, then I figured I might as well make for territory I knew. Reckoned I’d have an easier job of shakin’ any pursuit that way. Got to your line and reckoned, hell, if I was bein’ blamed for bein’ in on the deal anyway, and I was goin’ to have Wells Fargo and maybe the Rangers, on my trail, then why not throw in with you? You’ve got near a hundred guns on your payroll.”

  “Only one thing wrong with that, Nash,” Matthews said soberly. “I don’t want you to throw in with me. Any case, why would you? We ain’t exactly pards. And you’ve got plenty to square away with me.”

  “Mainly with Dekker, if you mean that fracas a couple of months back, over the barbed wire ... And I squared with Dekker out in the canyon.”

  “You sure did,” Matthews allowed, “and that’s why I reckon you’ll still want to square with me. It was me put you through that ley del la fuga!”

  “I been lookin’ forward to tanglin’ with you, Matthews,” Nash admitted with a show of blunt honesty. “But I got more troubles than I need right now. I’m smart enough to know when to haul rein. Anyway, long as you’ve got the girl, Garth won’t come near here nor call in the Rangers, in case anythin’ happens to her.”

  Matthews’ eyes narrowed as he looked first at the Mexican and then back to Nash. “Who says I’ve got the gal?”

  Nash shrugged. “I don’t care, one way or another. But if you don’t aim to let me stay here, turn me loose and gimme my guns so I can get on south. Might as well make for the border, I guess.”

  Cash Matthews scrubbed a hand over his jaw, plainly puzzled. He glanced at the Mexican quizzically but the ’breed merely shrugged, made a gesture with his hand across his throat. He’d play it safe and kill Nash here and now. But Matthews pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. He was reluctant to do that. Now that Dekker had gone, he needed a tough man to take charge of the hard case crew, someone they’d look up to because he was harder than they could ever be. But he needed to be able to depend on that same man, too, and he wasn’t yet convinced that he could depend on Clay Nash.

  “Well, what’s it to be, Matthews?” Nash demanded impatiently. “Time’s a-wastin’ for me if Garth’s called the Rangers in.”

  Matthews considered a moment longer then spoke to the Mex. “Throw him in the root cellar, Pascale ... hands and feet tied. Then you can take yourself a littl
e trip to Iron Ridge and Warbonnet and check out his story.”

  “Now wait a minute!” Nash protested. “You ain’t gonna keep me hogtied here.”

  He broke off as Matthews cuffed him hard across the mouth. “Shut down,” the rancher growled. “Move, Pascale.”

  The Mexican nodded, yanked the chestnut’s reins and walked it across the yard towards the root cellar, Nash hunched over in the saddle.

  ~*~

  Walt Garth was unused to riding in the saddle for long periods at a time and he was about bushed when the posse rode into Iron Ridge way-station for the second time in a week. He went straight to the kitchen of the adobe house while Hume and the rest of the posse watered their mounts and refilled canteens. Mary prepared them coffee and biscuits and then joined Garth and her father in the kitchen.

  “Lost his trail in the badlands, Mary,” Garth told her, seeing her anxious face. “He’s headed back into the southwest, his old stamping ground. We’ll never find him there.”

  “I still can’t believe it, Mr. Garth,” the girl said. “He was so—so cold about everything, so unlike the Clay Nash we knew.”

  “Well, it’s hard to credit, sure enough, Mary, but we only have the facts to go on.”

  “What you aim to do now, Walt?” asked Jed, watching Mary closely, knowing how upset she was.

  “Wells Fargo have slapped a reward on his head and I guess I’ll add to it, though I’ll have to sell my Denver house now, to meet the ransom they’ll demand.”

  “If you figure it’s Matthews who has your gal, why not ride in with a Ranger troop to the M-Bar-M and brace him with it?” Jed asked.

  “They’d kill Susan and—well, get rid of the ... evidence,” Garth said tightly. “Be the worst thing I could do. No, I guess Matthews is making me sweat a spell. If only he knew, I’d turn over everything I own in this world, do whatever it is he wants, just so long as Susan’s unharmed.”

  He turned away, distressed, as James Hume came in.

  “Posse’s ready to move on to Warbonnet when you are, Mr. Garth,” Hume said soberly, but looking at Mary. “I recommend we get back as soon as possible. Could be there’s some word from the kidnappers by now.”

  “The kidnappers?” echoed Mary. “Or ... Clay Nash?”

  Hume raised his eyebrows. “Clay Nash, Miss Summers? I doubt it. He’ll have lost himself in the southwest by now.” He turned to Walt Garth. “Time’s a-wasting, Mr. Garth. You ready, sir?”

  Garth nodded. Jed was frowning puzzledly at his daughter but Mary had an enigmatic smile on her face as she watched Hume usher Garth out of the room. The detective turned and looked at her impassively, hand on the latch. He pulled the door closed but just before the latch dropped into place, he nodded very slightly. Mary’s smile widened.

  ~*~

  Nash rubbed his numbed wrists as he walked across the ranch yard towards the big house, escorted by Pascale, trail-dusted and silent. The Mexican had come into the root cellar a few minutes ago and cut loose his bonds. Without a word, he’d yanked Nash to his feet and shoved him roughly up the steps and out into the blinding sunlight. Nash’s limbs were weak and paining him after being hogtied for three days and he blinked as the sunlight slashed at his eyes after the gloom of the cellar. Pascale seemed in an evil mood and shoved Nash around when the man staggered, still trying to get his legs and hands working properly. By the time they reached the porch steps outside of Matthews’ office, Nash had feeling back in his hands, though his legs were still rubbery.

  Abruptly, he turned as he planted his boots on the bottom step and slammed his balled fist into the middle of Pascale’s face. The startled ’breed shot back half a dozen feet, arms flailing, blood streaming from his nostrils. He stumbled, blinking tears of pain and shock from his eyes. Then Pascale’s eyes blazed and his hand whipped towards the knife at his belt. Nash stepped forward swiftly and kicked the Mex in the face, lifting the man back four or five feet. Pascale hit hard, rolled over onto his face and lay still. When Nash turned around he looked down the muzzle of Matthews’ Colt as the big rancher stood in the doorway of his office.

  “I owed him somethin’,” Nash said quietly and pushed past the rancher into the office, taking the initiative.

  Matthews watched as two cowpokes came out of the bunkhouse and helped the dazed and bleeding Mexican to his feet. Then he turned, going back into the office, still holding the six-gun, though he lowered the hammer off cock. He went behind his desk, sat down and swiveled his chair to the side so he could face Nash who was sitting straddle-legged on a straight-backed chair, hands folded on the rail. The Texan looked at the rancher, eyes hard, patient, unyielding.

  “Well,” Matthews said finally, “Pascale checked you out, Clay, and seems you’re worth $800 to Wells Fargo. That’s the bounty on your head. You’re wanted for hoss-stealin’, robbery ... guess that’s the food and shells you took from Iron Ridge ... assault and suspicion of kidnapping. They don’t much like you, pard.”

  Nash said nothing.

  “Seems you raised hell in Warbonnet and quit town with old Garth himself sendin’ a charge of buckshot after you. And you slugged one of your pards.” He shook his head slowly. “Be a lot of hombres tryin’ to earn that eight hundred iron men, if you ask me.”

  “Could’ve told you all that without havin’ to spend three days in that blamed root cellar, hogtied in a heap of onions and potatoes.”

  Matthews smiled faintly. “Well, I tell you, man, I’ve had you checked and I still ain’t sure about you. It just ain’t you, Clay. I remember when you worked for me after the War. Lot of the other hands took the chance to burn their own brands into the mavericks wanderin’ around this here range. Lot of the herds around these parts started out that way, with my mavericks. Happened to plenty of big ranchers. But not you. You didn’t do it. Line camp’s another place where the rannies have a chance to line their pockets at the owner’s expense by puttin’ in false accounts for strayed hosses, busted gear and fences. But not you. And you and me never did get on any too well but you were loyal to me while you worked under the M-Bar-M brand. Man with a code that strong don’t suddenly up and turn on the company he’s been workin’ for ...”

  “Unless he’s pushed too hard,” Nash said. “And I was pushed plenty. I near killed myself trackin’ Dekker and Rio to that line shack and then we shot it out. I bled all over Texas gettin’ ’em back to Warbonnet and all I got was an accusation, threat of a cell and the Rangers ... I figured that was enough and when they got in my way tryin’ to stop me goin’, I got tough. Simple as that, Matthews.”

  The rancher studied Nash’s hard, rugged face and finally nodded, putting away the six-gun. “Okay, Clay. Can’t figure out why you’d go to all that trouble if it wasn’t gospel, so I’ll take you on. You can have Vern Dekker’s job.”

  “Suits me. As long as I get a crack back at Wells Fargo and Walt Garth.”

  Matthews looked at him closely. “Maybe that can be arranged. What sort of thing would you have in mind?”

  Nash shrugged. “Same as you’ve been doin’, I guess. Harassing the stages on the Strip, pullin’ hold-ups ...”

  “No one can prove we did all that,” the rancher said curtly.

  “Look, Matthews, if I’m goin’ to work for you, you can quit all this pussyfootin’ around or I’ll just ride on out for the border. I know it was your men held up the stage when I got shot and Susan Garth was grabbed ... Dekker and Rio were in it. Likely Pascale was, too, and maybe a couple of others. I know you’ve got Garth’s cashbox and I guess you’re still holding the girl somewheres, so don’t try cryin’ innocent with me. Savvy? You trust me all the way, or we forget about any deal and I ride on out.”

  “You ain’t in any position to lay it on the line like that. Clay!” Matthews protested.

  Nash smiled faintly, stood swiftly and lifted the chair by the straight-back, ramming the four legs at Matthews and pinning his upper body against the wall with them. With his free hand, he whipped Matthews’ Colt fro
m his holster, stood back and lowered the chair.

  “Right on the line,” Nash said, cocking the Colt.

  Matthews ran a dry tongue over his lips. “I figured you wouldn’t forget ley del la fuga that easy!”

  Nash shrugged. “I can forget it if you pay enough. And if you don’t try to play me for a fool.”

  He stepped back against the side wall where he could watch the door and Matthews too as he heard footsteps on the porch. The door slammed open and Pascale staggered in, face swollen, bruised and blood-streaked, a cocked gun in his hand. He swung it towards Nash, teeth bared, his intention plain. The two guns blasted together and the Mexican spun off the porch and flopped to the dust.

  Nash looked through the powder smoke at Matthews as the big rancher got to his feet from where he’d flung himself on the floor. He dusted himself down and looked at Nash soberly. “Looks like I better take you on ... I’m losin’ all my top men.”

  Ten – Getaway

  NASH NODDED and glanced through the door as men came running up from the barn and bunkhouses, gathering around the dead Mexican. He gestured with the smoking Colt.

  “I’ll take my own guns,” he said.

  Matthews nodded, went to a wall cupboard and unlocked it. He handed Nash his Colt first and the Texan examined it swiftly, before placing the rancher’s gun on the desk edge. He held the Colt easily in his right hand as Matthews thrust out his Winchester.

  “I see they’re both engraved,” Matthews said. “Wells Fargo thinks a heap of you, huh?”

  “They did.” Clay spat on the floor. “You ready to take me into your confidence or do I get my horse and ride out?”

  “What’s your hurry?” the rancher asked suspiciously as he went to the door and looked out at the men crowding around the porch. “It’s all right, boys. Just a little ruckus. This here’s Clay Nash. He’s takin’ Dekker’s place. I’ll still give the orders for ranch work. Nash takes over the special bunch. Right now we’re busy, so someone can tote Pascale away and bury him. Rest of you get on about your chores.”