Clay Nash 4

by Brett Waring

  The sheriff had his right fist bunched down at his side, cocked and ready, and Nash made no move to get out of the way as it suddenly whizzed towards his swelling jaw. He simply turned his head a little so that some of the force was spent when the knuckles skidded along his jawbone and he went down again with a thud, bright lights bursting behind his eyes, gravel biting into his cheek.

  Burns stood over Nash, panting, bloody, sweating, his legs rubbery, glad Nash wasn’t making any effort to get up. He didn’t think he could have put the big Wells Fargo man down again: it had taken all his effort so far and he knew if that kick hadn’t missed his head by a whisker, he would’ve been out to it long since. Townsmen were clapping him on the back and he staggered unsteadily. They grabbed him and supported him and he wiped blood from his mouth and turned to them.

  “Gimme a hand to get that hombre into the cells,” he panted.

  There were plenty of eager helpers and Nash, still half-conscious, was lifted bodily and carried towards the law offices. Burns stumbled along behind and opened the door, someone taking the lantern off the porch and carrying it inside to light the way. Nash was dumped unceremoniously onto a bunk and Burns locked the barred door, walked back to the front office and dropped into his desk chair.

  “Thanks, fellers,” he told the townsmen. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Reckon you know him, eh, Sheriff?” a man asked. “Way he jumped that hoss at you and both of you started sluggin’ away like that.”

  Burns nodded slowly, dabbing at his bleeding lips. “I know him ...” He heaved to his feet suddenly. “And I’d better take a look at that dead man he’s got roped across that other horse outside.”

  ~*~

  Nash came round slowly and painfully on the bunk. He sat up gingerly, holding his swollen jaw gently. He swung his feet down to the stone floor and leaned his elbows on his knees, head between his hands. After a time, he got out his bandanna and mopped up some of the blood from his face. His gun was gone, of course, so were his clasp knife and cartridge belt. In fact his pockets had been emptied except for the kerchief and tobacco sack. He sat on the edge of the bunk and laboriously twisted up a cigarette. But there were no vestas and he stumbled to the barred door, leaned against it, and yelled.

  “Hey, Sheriff! You got a light?”

  He waited, but there was no answer. He called again.

  Still no answer. The heavy door leading from the cellblock to the front office was closed and he glanced at its base now, swore when he couldn’t see any line of light showing underneath. It looked like Brad Burns had gone home for the night and left his prisoner alone in the cells.

  ~*~

  Ellen Bray frowned as she wrung out the clean cloth she had used to mop up the signs of battle from Burns’ battered face. He sat across the kitchen table from her, looking quite pleased with himself despite his wounds and bruises.

  “But can you legally do that, Brad?” the girl asked.

  Burns smiled slowly, wincing a little as he moved his split lips. “I reckon I can ... A man comes ridin’ into town, toting a dead man roped across a saddle. The moment he sees me, he jumps his horse into me and starts a fight. I’m a lawman now, Ellen. I won that fight, so I’ve got every right to throw him in the cells.”

  “Yes, but you know who he is! You told me this Clay Nash works undercover for Wells Fargo. Probably that dead man, an outlaw named Cox you said, was part of an assignment he was working on. He may want to stay undercover now, which is probably why he started a fight with you, so you wouldn’t give away his true identity.”

  Burns frowned, mulling this over. “We-ell, I guess that's possible. But makes no difference. Far as the town’s concerned, he’s just a proddy stranger who rode in and bit off more’n he could chew when he tackled me.” He laughed suddenly, shortly. “You’ve got no idea, Ellen, what satisfaction it gives me to have Nash locked away in a cell! After all he put me through months ago when he got me thrown into Laramie prison! It’s poetic justice if I ever saw it!”

  She stared at him soberly and the smile slowly faded from his face.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you see the irony of it?”

  “Of course I do, Brad,” she told him with a slight edge to her voice. “I know you hate this man Nash, and perhaps your reasons warrant such hatred, but I think you’ve acted hastily here. You don’t know what work you might be undoing or interfering with by locking Nash up and just leaving him in the cell overnight!”

  He looked at her with hard eyes. “You know somethin’, Ellen? I don’t give a damn! I hope I am lousin’ up Nash’s work! I hope I’m undoin’ everything, fouling up the assignment he’s working on! I hope I make his life pure hell! And it won’t just be for overnight! No fear! I’m charging him with assault and I’m keeping him there till the circuit judge arrives for a hearin’!” He shook his head slowly, lips drawn into a tight line. “I don’t aim to let him out of my hands now I’ve got him cold-decked, Ellen. It’s too good a chance to pass up. I was mistaken for someone else and held for weeks, so why shouldn’t Nash go through some of the same?”

  She stood swiftly, her face tight with anger. “I didn’t realize you were so petty, Brad!”

  “Petty?” he echoed. “Good God, gal, if I could only make you realize what Nash put me through ...!”

  “But you know this is wrong!” she cut in, eyes blazing. “You know he’s probably on undercover work for Wells Fargo and you’re deliberately interfering! No matter how well you convince others that it’s all a mistake or you’re doing the legal thing by charging Nash, you know it’s wrong!” She paused and gave him one final cold look before stalking out of the room. “And so do I!”

  Burns glared after her, breathing fast, but there was a stubborn look on his battered face.

  ~*~

  The man who brought Nash breakfast worked at the diner opposite and told the Wells Fargo man that Sheriff Brad Burns had merely told him to bring in the food, unlocked the office and then gone across to the diner for his own breakfast.

  Nash took the food through the bars and said, “Well, you tell the sheriff I want to see him, pronto.”

  “I’ll tell him but I get the impression he ain’t in any great hurry to see you, mister.” He laughed suddenly. “Why should he, anyways? You ain’t goin’ any place, are you?”

  Nash swore. “Can you leave me some vestas? I’m dying for a smoke.”

  “Well, dunno as how Burns would like that. You got anythin’ to trade?”

  “No, damn it, I don’t!” Nash snapped, irritably. “Burns cleaned my pockets out last night.”

  “We-ell, I guess I better not leave any then. Just to be on the safe side!” The man laughed again, started to leave, but paused and turned back towards the cell. “Say, who are you anyways, mister? Burns knows you, I reckon, but he ain’t sayin’.”

  Nash stared at the man levelly. “Name’s Matt Dundee. Tell Burns that. Matt Dundee. He’s likely got a Wanted dodger on me so ain’t much use me givin’ you a false name.”

  The diner man pursed his lips and whistled softly. “On the dodge, huh? Sure, I’ll tell the sheriff, Dundee. So long. Too bad about your smoke!”

  Nash scowled after the man as he left and closed the cellblock door after him. Then he wolfed down the breakfast, indifferent food that merely filled his belly. He craved a smoke! He figured Burns was making him sweat a little, making up for the wrong he had done him up in Montana all those months ago. Okay, once he figured that, it became more bearable. He could wait Burns out.

  But Burns didn’t show until after noon and when he did come into the cellblock passage and stop just outside the barred door, he was smoking and blowing the tobacco smoke deliberately into Nash’s cell. The Wells Fargo man ground his teeth as he got up off the bunk and walked to the door.

  “About goddamn time, Burns!” he snapped.

  The sheriff smiled crookedly, blew more smoke in Nash's face. “Matt Dundee, huh? Yeah, I got a Wanted dodger on you. Came through in t
he morning’s mail. Good likeness of you, mister. See you’re wanted for murder, robbery and bustin’ out of prison. And you can add assault on a law officer to that, for what it’s worth.”

  “Cut the clowning, Burns, and let me out of here,” Nash growled. “You’ve had your fun. Now let me loose. I’ve got a job to do.”

  Burns arched his eyebrows. “But you ain’t goin’ anywhere, Dundee! You’re a desperado, a badly wanted man, and I reckon the Rangers’ll be happy I’ve got you tucked away here. So don’t go givin’ me any hogwash about ‘jobs’ to be done. You ain’t goin’ any place for a long time.”

  The sheriff turned and started to walk away and Nash shook the bars savagely, a cold knot in his belly now.

  “Wait up, Burns!” he called and the lawman slowed his pace, turned and looked at Nash with hard eyes.

  “Yeah, Dundee?”

  “Cut it out! You know who I am!”

  “Sure. Matt Dundee. You told the diner man and he’ll swear to it. And I got a Wanted dodger on you with your picture on it. So I know who you are all right, Dundee.”

  “Goddamn it, Burns! You know I’m Clay Nash! Dundee’s only my cover! I’m on a job for Wells Fargo!”

  Burns dropped his cigarette stub on the floor and ground it out under his boot. He walked back to stand just outside Nash’s cell door, his eyes hard and bleak, face like granite.

  “I remember a time, not too long back, standin’ by a river up in Montana while you held a gun on me, Nash. And I kept tryin’ to tell you that my name was Brad Burns not Josh someone or other who you reckoned had robbed some stages and killed a lot of folk. You didn’t believe me!”

  “Judas priest, that was different!” Nash said, getting a touch desperate now. “I didn’t know you and you fitted Josh’s description exactly and, what’s more, you were right where I expected to find him! That was a legitimate mistake and I tried to make it up to you. But this is different! You damn well know I’m Clay Nash and you’re gonna blow the whole deal unless you cooperate!”

  Burns continued to glare at him coldly. “Yeah. It’s different, right enough. You’re the one tryin’ to convince folk you ain’t a wanted outlaw now. Well, you go ahead and do it! Call in anyone you like, or stand at that there window and yell it out so’s the whole town can hear! Go on! Start yellin’ that you’re really Clay Nash, Wells Fargo undercover man, and not Matt Dundee, escaped convict and wanted outlaw!”

  Nash’s eyes narrowed and his voice was very calm when he spoke. “You know I can’t do that. I need the Dundee identity for my cover! Come on, Burns. Don’t blow this deal on me now! That dead man I toted in was Chuka Cox ...”

  “I know. Got a Wanted dodger on him, too.”

  “But maybe you didn’t know he was an expert with dynamite and we suspect he was workin’ with this gang of train robbers I’m after, led by the Forrester brothers ... What’s wrong?”

  Burns had stiffened at mention of the Forresters. “Eh? Nothin’ much. But I killed Lem Forrester couple of nights back and wounded Zack. They gunned down Luke Bray, which is how come I got to be totin’ his star.”

  “All right,” Nash said slowly. “That explains a lot. Thing is, Cox tried to bushwhack me but I nailed him. If he was workin’ with the Forresters, they’re short an explosives’ man now. And Matt Dundee was one of the best men with dynamite ever to walk the West.”

  “He dead, too?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead. I’m tryin’ to use his identity to get into the gang. I had to jump you last night so you wouldn’t holler out my real name.”

  “Well, rest easy,” Burns said and, for a moment, hope rose in Nash, but sank just as swiftly a second later when the sheriff added: “I won’t be mentionin’ your real name. Far as I’m concerned, or the rest of this town, you’re Matt Dundee. And you can set and wait till the circuit judge gets here!”

  Burns gave Nash one final glare and heeled and strode towards the door leading to the front office. Nash shook the barred door.

  “Damn you, Burns! Don’t do this to me!”

  But Brad Burns continued on through the doorway and slammed the door hard after him. Nash heard the bolt clash home on the far side. He smashed the heel of his hand hard against the cell bars in frustration and walked stiffly back to the bunk, dropping onto it with a thud. Seemed like Brad Burns was going to take full revenge and there wasn’t one damned thing Nash could do about it!

  Chapter Five

  The Break

  Zack Forrester’s wound was feeling better today. It had been giving him hell the last couple of days and he had been sure he was working up to a fever at one stage but now it not only felt better, it looked better.

  The Mexican girl who tended him, a buxom, flashing-eyed señorita named Katerina Morales, had gentle fingers but he still winced as she placed the clean dressing over the wound and bound it firmly into place. She heard his quick breathing, knew he was in pain, and reached for the stone jug of whisky on the floor beside the bed. She handed it to him silently.

  Zack took it and drank greedily, slopping some of the liquid down his chin. He sighed when he took it away from his mouth. He patted the girl’s ample thigh. “Gracias, Trina. You know how to look after a man.” He ran his eyes up and down her fine, aggressive figure as she moved around, clearing up the things. “Hey! You don’t have to get back to your village right away, do you?”

  She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled slowly with her red lips. “You may feel better, Zachary, but I think you are not that ready yet.”

  Forrester smiled crookedly. “Won’t hurt none to find out.”

  She shook her head and the glistening cascade of blue-black hair fell across her shoulders, bare above her peasant blouse, which was beaded and embroidered colorfully.

  “In a few days, maybe. We will see.”

  Zack Forrester was disappointed, and his face reflected it as he drank more from the whisky jug. Then he froze, the jug halfway to his mouth. The girl glanced at him swiftly as he set down the jug fast and pulled his Colt from its rig on the bedpost beside him. The hammer clicked back and he pointed the gun at the door, but he spoke to Trina without looking at her.

  “Take a look out the window and see who that is,” he ordered.

  The girl moved swiftly to the window and pulled the burlap drapes aside, looking out into the yard surrounding the adobe shack. Two horsemen were pulling up and dismounting. She turned back to face Forrester.

  “Your amigos. Lester and Magee,” she told him.

  Forrester nodded but still didn’t look in her direction, nor did he lower the gun hammer. Not until the door opened slowly and Clem Lester and Link Magee came in, their hands held shoulder-high as Forrester had instructed them to do whenever entering his room. Then he put the Colt away and the girl prepared to leave.

  “I will call again this evening, Zachary,” she said softly, leaning over him and kissing him lightly.

  He grasped her hand and pulled her down, his other arm going around the back of her head. He kissed her soundly, allowed her to pull back, but did not release her hand. He patted the edge of the bunk beside him.

  “Set a spell, Trina. No hurry to go, is there?”

  She shrugged. “No, but I thought ...” She gestured at the others.

  “Aw, hell, you can hear anythin’ they gotta say, honey. Set a spell.”

  Trina shrugged again and sat down beside Zack Forrester. He looked at the others, seeing they were anxious to say something.

  “Well, spit it out!” he snapped.

  Magee, the younger of the two, and more afraid of Forrester, made it plain that he was leaving it all up to Clem Lester.

  “It ain't good news, Zack.”

  “Good or bad, let’s have it!” the outlaw chief growled. Lester paused only a moment, then spoke rapidly. “Chuka’s dead. Tried to bushwhack some ranny at the river outside of Medina, but the hombre nailed him.”

  Zack Forrester’s face was tight and pale as he stared at Lester. “Go on,” he said t
hickly.

  “They made that feller Burns sheriff, Zack. The one who downed Lem and shot you. He’s the law in Ojo Medina now and he’s got this Dundee hombre locked up tight.”

  “Dundee?” asked Forrester, staring.

  “Yeah. Matt Dundee. He’s the feller who got Chuka.”

  Forrester nodded slowly and when he spoke it was almost as though he were talking to himself. “Matt Dundee. By hell! Could be this is a stroke of luck after all!”

  Lester and Magee looked at each other.

  “Ain’t so lucky with Chuka dead, Zack,” Magee said quietly. “We got that other train comin’ up and now we’re without a dynamite man.”

  Forrester surprised both men and the girl by laughing. “Well, I got news for you folks! Chuka Cox was sure a top explosives man, but, by hell, if ever there was a better one with dynamite, it’s Matt Dundee!”

  Trina and the other men stared at him.

  “You mean ...?” began Lester.

  “Sure,” cut in Forrester. “Matt Dundee cut his teeth on dynamite! Ain’t any better man in the whole Union can hold a candle to him when it comes to blastin’ things apart! And he’s right there in town, huh?”

  Lester nodded. “In a cell. Seems he knows Burns and they’re old enemies. He jumped Burns the moment he hit town with Chuka’s body but Burns beat him and cold-decked him, locked him away for the circuit judge to try him.”

  Forrester frowned. “Dundee rode in totin’ Cox’s body?”

  “That’s what they said,” Link Magee answered and looked at Lester for confirmation. “Seems he knew there was a bounty on Cox and tried to collect on it …”