Clay Nash 4

by Brett Waring

  He spun fast when he heard a gun hammer notching back to full cock.

  ‘‘Looks like the door stands and you lay down, Clay,” Forrester said, face grim.

  “Hold it, hold it!” Nash said. “Look at that wood! Six inches of solid oak split right up the middle. You hit that door slap in the middle with the sledge and it’ll fall apart!”

  The outlaw boss frowned, hesitating. Magee and Lester looked to him for directions and he nodded to Magee. The young outlaw picked up the heavy sledge, walked up to the door and swung the hammer. Nash held his breath, inching closer to Forrester, aiming to get close enough to strike at the cocked Colt in Forrester’s hand. At the moment of impact, he figured the outlaw would be concentrating on the door and that would be the best time.

  Nash snapped his head up at the sound of splintering wood and a yell from Magee as he leapt wildly back from the mineshaft entrance. Much to Nash’s surprise, the door had split under the blow from the sledge, right from top to bottom, and the two halves had fallen in opposite directions, one into the shaft, the other outwards. This latter piece narrowly missed Magee as he threw himself headlong out of the way. Nash’s breath hissed slowly out between his teeth and he forced a smile of triumph as he looked at Forrester.

  “Good enough?” he asked.

  Forrester stared at him soberly and then slowly lowered the hammer on the Colt. He holstered the gun with a flourish, faced Nash squarely and then thrust out his right hand, unsmiling. Nash gripped briefly with him.

  “Okay, you’re in. Can tell you now that Chuka Cox actually said he’d hate to have to try to bring that door down with one stick of dynamite, but he figured Matt Dundee would be able to manage it. Guess you learn good, Clay. You damn near did it without the need for that sledge.”

  “And you damn near blew a hole in me,” Nash told him. “Kinda trigger-happy, ain’t you, Forrester?”

  “Hell, no hard feelin’s, Clay! You’re one of us now. Just to prove we trust you, we’ll show you around that there shed yonder if you want to.”

  “Why would I want to see what’s in there? I can see most of the stuff through the doorway. Iron pot, forge, and God knows what in a frame underneath.”

  Forrester grinned crookedly. “Come on in and take a closer look,” he urged.

  Inside the shed, Nash looked down at the sand within the frame and figured it only confirmed his earlier suspicions. The sand was laid out in a series of moulds, irregularly shaped. There were even a few pieces of gravel and quartz embedded into the sides of some of the depressions.

  “We’ve been gettin’ ourselves some mighty good hauls of gold bullion lately,’’ Forrester said, bragging. “Trouble with a bullion robbery is, you got to get rid of it and even melting it down into smaller stuff don’t always work. Sometimes the Rangers can backtrack. But we not only melt it down, we pour it into these here sand molds so that when it cools it comes out lookin’ like nuggets we dug out of the ground, complete with bits of quartz, dirt and stones. We sell it as mined gold and no one knows the difference. We even get some across the Rio from time to time, although they tightened up the checks. We had Luke Bray in our pockets for a spell, till he got greedy. We’d make the brake-bars of the wagons out of gold and paint ’em over, use it to make shoes and spade bits for the horses. Lester and Magee are mighty good at that sort of thing. So you can see you ain’t joined any bunch of greenhorns, Clay.’’

  Nash managed to look impressed which wasn’t hard to do. This was some fancy operation.

  “Well, what’s the all-fired hurry to get a good explosives’ man?’’ he asked. “You got another bullion robbery planned?”

  Forrester’s grin widened and Lester and Magee looked smug and self-satisfied, too.

  “Reckon we have ... The biggest this country’ll ever see.”

  Nash arched his eyebrows. “How come? What you pullin’ now?”

  “You ever heard of the Juarez Express?”

  Nash felt his heart skip a beat. “Well, guess so. Runs all the way from the Gulf along the Rio on the Texas side to El Paso, crosses the bridge into Mexico at Juarez and comes back down the Rio on the Mexican side.”

  “And once every three months it carries the payroll for every army post, border patrol point and Ranger station between the Gulf coast and the New Mexico line. And that’s a heap of dinero, Clay! Over a quarter of a million!”

  Nash whistled softly, brain racing. “Be a hard one to crack. Express car’s packed with soldiers as well as the usual Wells Fargo men. Special car for horses, too, as I recollect, in case a posse should need ’em.”

  “That’s right,” Forrester agreed readily. “But it’s no problem, believe me. Chuka Cox figured it out for me. Tomorrow, that Juarez train crosses Rimrock Canyon by the trestle bridge. The express car’s slap in the middle of the train, horse van behind the passenger car up front. When that train’s stretched out across the bridge, it’ll be the loco at one end, caboose at the other. So, a charge of dynamite slap in the middle will be right under the express van, savvy?”

  Nash frowned. ‘‘Sure. But you blow it in the middle of the trestle and you’ll bring the whole blamed bridge down. With the complete train. You’ll dump the lot into the canyon!”

  Forrester’s grin had spread from ear to ear now. ‘‘Yeah. How about that? Don’t reckon there’ll be any resistance after a drop like that ... must be a hundred feet or so. And we mightn’t even have to blow the express safe. It’ll likely bust open!”

  Nash looked around at the three outlaws and couldn’t keep the horror he felt from showing on his face.

  “Great snakes!” he breathed. “You’ll kill maybe thirty people!”

  Forrester grinned, shrugged. “Not much of a price to pay for a quarter of a million, is it?”

  Nash said, “Listen, Forrester, I’ve killed plenty of men in my time. But it’s always been during a shootout, never in plain cold blood, no matter what kind of a deal I was pullin’!”

  Forrester stared at him coldly, grin gone now, eyes hard. He said nothing, but waited for Nash to continue.

  “I’ll tell you something else, too, about that train tomorrow. It’s gonna have a load of school kids on board. The teacher’s takin’ ’em down to the Rimrock Canyon on a school excursion!”

  Forrester’s eyes narrowed. “How come you know that?”

  “The schoolmarm’s Ellen Bray. Heard her tellin’ Burns when I was in jail. Fact she asked him to go with her and help with the kids ...”

  Forrester’s grin suddenly appeared again.

  “Well, that’s just fine with me!” he said, chuckling. “That’s more than fine, it’s right purty! I owe Burns plenty, and droppin’ him down into Rimrock Canyon with a train on top of him suits me just fine!”

  “And the kids?” Nash asked tightly.

  Forrester looked at him deadpan, eyes cold. “What kids?” he asked.

  Chapter Seven

  Night Manhunt

  Ellen Bray set down the plate of food in front of Brad Burns and then walked to the opposite side of the table and put down her own platter. As she eased herself into her chair, she asked, “Have you made up your mind about tomorrow yet, Brad?”

  Burns looked up from his food, a forkful halfway to his mouth. He frowned. “Tomorrow?”

  “The children’s picnic-excursion to Rimrock Canyon. Are you coming to lend a hand?”

  He looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, I dunno, Ellen. A dozen kids! I ain’t all that good with ’em, you know.”

  She smiled. “They’d be thrilled to bits to have the sheriff of Ojo Medina along. Seeing that star pinned to your shirt would make them behave, I’m sure.”

  He grinned fleetingly. “Maybe you’re right ... Picnic, you say?”

  “Yes, I want them to learn something about the rock strata in the canyon and the way the river has cut through it over the centuries, but I thought a picnic with a few games as well would help them remember the day a little better.”

  “Sounds pre
tty good. Er—you cookin’ up the lunch?”

  She smiled. “I have seven chickens cooking if that’s what you mean and I’ll be baking bread tonight ...”

  Brad Burns grinned. “Then I reckon that’s the clincher: I’ll come. You know, Longhorn Tommy Loveless told me that Rimrock Canyon is where a whole herd went over in a stampede and wiped out every man-jack of a cattle camp. It’ll be good to see the place I’ll be writin’ about, but knowing there’ll be a fine cold-cut chicken lunch waiting as well—now that is somethin’!”

  Ellen laughed. “It’s a deal, Brad. I'll feed you if you help me see that none of the kids wander off or fall in the river!”

  Burns grinned widely, eating fast and enjoying the food, watching the girl. He caught her several times looking across the table at him. There was a real feeling of affection developing between them and, being honest with himself, he admitted he was looking forward to accompanying her on the train excursion with the school kids. Also, he would be glad of the excuse to get out of the town for the day.

  Since that business of the jailbreak, and the subsequent fruitless search for tracks by a hastily-organized posse, his popularity in Ojo Medina had dropped one hell of a lot.

  It was all Nash’s fault and Burns was almost sorry he had agreed to let the jailbreak take place. If he had had any sense at all he would have staked out the law office and blown the Forrester bunch out of their saddles when they showed. The town would have thought plenty of him then.

  ~*~

  Nash figured they didn’t trust him completely, not after his outburst about the school kids going to be on board the Juarez Express. These hombres seemed to figure that any price was fine as long as the profits were big enough. He had never seen a bunch, like Forrester, Lester and Magee, who honestly didn’t give a damn about the fact that a dozen kids could get killed ... not to mention the other passengers, guards and train crew of that doomed train.

  Because he had spoken up about it, they weren’t sure of him now. They knew what he could do with dynamite and they wanted his expertise, but they weren’t sure they could trust him to place that bundle of dynamite sticks now.

  The first indication had been when they had returned to the adobe shack from the mine. Nash had asked for a gun-rig and Forrester had been evasive, something about not having enough ammunition, that they would pick one up for him tomorrow at the Mexican village on their way down to Rimrock Canyon. He noticed that they moved around him so that he could be covered by at least two of them at all times. At the meal table, they had placed him so he was in a corner and the three of them blocked him in. The girl, Trina, looked at him strangely as she served the meal and he knew she was wondering why he wasn’t armed like the others, for obviously he had passed his test, otherwise they would have killed him out in the hills.

  Later, he heard her asking Forrester about it in the kitchen: he was still seated at the table smoking, and close enough to hear most of their conversation.

  “I’ll get him a gun tomorrow,’’ Forrester had told her. “After we blow up that bridge. He’s backin’-off because there’s gonna be a bunch of school kids on board.’’

  Nash heard the girl suck in a sharp breath. “Muchachos? On the gold train? Ah, Zachary, you cannot use your plan! You will not kill children, surely! Not for all the gold in the world!’’

  Forrester’s voice was coldly disinterested. “Whelps grow up into people. I kill them and you don’t complain What’s the difference? Just gettin’ in a mite earlier. Anyways, I didn’t know kids were gonna be on board when I planned it. You got any more tacos left?”

  “You can eat while discussing the murder of children?’’ the girl asked, horror edging her voice. “Aah, you cannot go through with this, Zachary!”

  “Shut up and mind your own business,” Forrester growled, obviously speaking around a mouthful of food.

  “But this is—terrible! I want no part of it. I want no gold from this, none, you hear!” Trina cried the words loudly, causing Magee and Lester to snap their heads up.

  There was the sound of a heavy slap, a sob of pain, then Forrester’s voice. “That’s all right with me, you Mex bitch. You wouldn’t be gettin’ any, anyways.”

  “But—you gave your word!” the girl sobbed.

  “You’re gettin’ me riled, Trina! Fact, I’ve had a bellyful of you ...”

  There came a strangled sob of pain, a gagging, retching sound, and then the thud of a body hitting the floor. Nash jumped to his feet and heaved the table aside but Magee and Lester had him covered. Forrester came out of the kitchen wiping blood from his hands on a rag. He glanced at Nash and flung the rag towards him, his face cold.

  “Bitch! She’s finished now. And I reckon we’ll tie you up for the night, mister. Just to be on the safe side. Can’t trust a man who’s soft on kids ... or women.”

  So they tied Nash hand and foot and dumped him in a corner of the room where they had eaten. As far as he knew no one had removed the girl’s body from the kitchen. They left him in darkness and went to their rooms, Magee going outside because he slept over the barn.

  Nash knew he was as good as dead. He would have to place that dynamite on the bridge the way Forrester wanted it or they would shoot him. If he said right from the start that he wouldn’t handle the dynamite, then they would kill him right here and try to do the blasting themselves. He was dead, either way. So he had nothing to lose now. The way the gold bullion was dispersed was no longer important. Stopping that train from reaching the trestle bridge over Rimrock Canyon was the thing he had to concentrate on now. And that meant escape.

  He strained at the rawhide they had used on his wrists, wrapping it around in dozens of strips so that they came halfway up his forearms. He could barely wiggle his fingers, so that was out. He would have to find something to rub the bonds against and break through them. It wouldn’t be easy. With rope it could take hours, even on the edge of broken glass or a rough rock. But rawhide was even harder and there would be nothing sharp in here. Forrester had had a good look around before leaving to make sure there were no bottles or knives left about.

  But the kitchen should be full of sharp instruments.

  He lay where he was for an hour and by that time his arms and legs were cramped and going numb. His shoulders and neck muscles were beginning to ache and he knew he would have to make a move soon or he would be too crippled to do anything but lie there and wait for morning. There were no sounds in the house, except a kind of muffled, ragged noise but he couldn’t really tell where it was coming from. It sounded almost like water or some liquid. Maybe there was a sprung stave in the rain butt outside.

  Nash rolled slowly across the floor, freezing when his legs knocked against a chair and it scraped against the table edge. But nothing happened, no one came, and he continued to worm his way across the dark room in the direction of the kitchen door. He thudded into the wall with his head and stars whirled briefly behind his eyes. Then he felt his way along the cold adobe with his forehead until he came to the edge of the doorway. Using his face, he felt his way across the rough boards, trying to ignore the pain of the wood splinters tearing at his cheek. He just hoped he didn’t ram one into his eye.

  When he felt the adobe at the opposite edge, Nash rested, slumped against the door, breathing hard, sweating. The wetness soaked the rawhide and he could already feel it beginning to tighten. He worked his knees around and grunted and strained until he got them under him and he could sway upright. Not able to use his arms for balance, he fell into the wall hard, but he used his head and neck muscles to push himself off and swayed unsteadily on his knees. He felt around with the top of his head for the latch bar, found it, and eased up gently, leaning forward so that his weight pressed against the door.

  It opened abruptly, unexpectedly and swung back, throwing him forward. Even as he fell, twisting to take the force on his shoulder instead of his face, he hoped the door wouldn't slam back against the kitchen wall or crash into a cupboard. He was lucky. Just
an instant before he hit the floor with his shoulder, he heard the door thud with a muffled sound into a sack of potatoes and then his head rapped the floor and his ears sang.

  The feeling was going in his legs and arms, but he lay there for a spell, letting his breathing settle, trying to get his eyes used to the almost total darkness. And then he heard it, much closer than before: the wet, ragged sound he had been unable to place before.

  It was almost beside him and he jerked his head towards the sound and saw the paleness of Trina’s peasant blouse only a few feet away. She was still alive, and the sound was her uneven breathing. From down on the floor here, he could see the haft of a knife rising and falling with her breathing, silhouetted against the burlap-hung window. The knife must be protruding from her chest or side, he figured.

  “Trina!” he whispered. ‘Trina! Can you hear me? It’s ... Dundee.”

  The ragged sounds paused momentarily and then resumed but he heard movement, a rustling sound, her hair dragging on the floor as she turned her head.

  “Matt?” she croaked in a dry, harsh voice he hardly recognized. “Zachary has ... killed—me …”

  “You might be all right yet,” Nash whispered. “Don’t give up. They’ve tied me with rawhide. I came in here looking for a knife. If you could just manage to cut away the bonds on my wrists, we might get out of here.”

  She was a long time answering and he strained his ears to hear if there were any other sounds in the shack but all he could hear now was her uneven breathing, the slight bubbling of the blood in her wound. Then there was a sobbing, shuddering sigh from her and he just caught the end of the movement as she wrenched the knife from her body. She seemed to collapse and her breath came fast, raggedly, panting. She coughed and her body convulsed. Nash grimaced in the dark.

  “Hell, Trina! You’ll bleed much worse now!’’

  “Here—is your—knife, Matt,” she gasped weakly. “I die any—way ... Turn your back towards me and I—I try ...”