by Brett Waring
Nash stood up through the gunsmoke, Peacemaker moving in a short, menacing arc, only one bullet left in the chamber. The batwings opened and Brewster stepped in, not saying anything, just covering the still room with the double-barreled shotgun. All eyes were on Nash and no one made any attempt to stop him as he moved slowly around towards the batwings. He stopped near the pale-faced Regan and looked into his eyes.
“Bury ’em. Then look at the sky,” Nash said. “You’ve got less than an hour left in this town, mister.”
Nash backed up beside Brewster, nodded, and they both backed out of the saloon through the batwings.
“Obliged,” Nash said out on the boardwalk, shucking out fresh cartridges from his gunbelt and starting to reload. “I figure that about lets you off the hook.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Brewster demanded, it ain’t sundown yet. Anyway, I figure they won’t give no more trouble after what you just done.”
Nash looked at him soberly. “That’s where you’re wrong.” he said. “They’ll give more than ever now. Because I had to gun ’em both down that way, Regan’ll join up with Macklin and I’ll have to take on both crews at once.”
Brewster swore. “Then you’ll need me.”
Nash shook his head. “Can’t let you do it. I’ll figure somethin’.”
“We’ll figure somethin’ together then,” Brewster said. “Damn it, Nash, I wasn’t always a depot agent. I done my time ridin’ shotgun for Wells Fargo. And I put in a stint under Jim Hume, too. Along with Pop Moran and Dakota Haines.”
Nash showed his surprise at that. “Didn’t know that. Pop’s dead, you know?” i
“Yeah, I heard. Heard how you and Dakota took the frontier apart gettin’ the hombres who did it, too. No, Nash, don’t tell me to go hunt cover. I said I’d back you and that’s what I aim to do.”
Nash nodded slowly as they walked back towards the law office. “Like I said, I’m obliged.”
The office was empty when they reached it and Brewster stood Lynn Enderby’s shotgun in a corner, looking puzzled.
“Wonder where she went?”
Nash shrugged, dropping gratefully into his desk chair. “Likely saw us come out of the Hangtree in one piece and figured she’d had enough of our foolishness for one day and lit out for home.”
“Mebbe. I’ll go check at the livery. Want to give Huxley a piece of my mind for pullin’ out the way he did, anyway.”
“No, leave him be, Brewster,” Nash said. “He’s a family man, too. I don’t blame him for pullin’ out. Same as I wouldn’t blame you.”
Brewster shrugged. “Okay. But what’s our next move?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“Sundown.”
“Then what.”
“We’ll see what it brings.”
“Yeah, I know what the hell it’ll bring! About thirty trail herders convergin’ on this office with guns a’smokin’!”
Nash smiled faintly at Brewster’s tone.
“I might’ve figured a way to stop ’em by then.”
“The Santa Fe stage might fly in too, with an angel handling the reins!”
Nash grinned and he figured things couldn’t be all that bad if he could still find something to smile about.
~*~
Considine had taken over a suite of rooms above the Hangtree Bar and, crouched at the top of the stairs, with gun in hand, he had seen Nash shoot down the two trail herders and Cavendish. He hadn’t shown himself. There had been no point.
But he was worried as, back in his room now, he sat by the window that overlooked the plaza, and watched Nash and Brewster go into the law office. He wasn’t afraid of Nash, but he realized the man was far more deadly than he had figured. In the gunfight down below in the bar Nash had been fast, fast and efficient. Considine had seen men who could get their guns out before a man could blink an eye, but their shooting hadn’t been worth a hill of beans for accuracy, and he had been able to down them with ease.
Nash was different. He was fast and accurate. About as fast as Considine himself, the gunfighter figured, and that was something he hadn’t considered earlier. Half-brother to a bolt of lightning and able to knock out a jackrabbit’s eye at thirty yards. That was how Considine saw himself. And now, standing right alongside him, he saw Clay Nash, too.
And the knowledge put a cold twist in his guts.
Considine always liked to know as much as possible about any man he was going up against. He believed that knowing his opponents’ weaknesses and strengths gave him a slight edge.
The thing that bothered Considine now was that Clay Nash would be the first man he had met who anywhere near approached his speed and matched his accuracy. He knew, no matter what, he couldn’t just ride out without calling Nash. There was an uneasiness in him that simply wouldn’t allow him to ride away from any man whom he suspected might come close to outgunning him. He had to know! It had always been part of him, this drive to be sure. So far, it had always worked out in his favor. He told himself that there was no reason why it shouldn’t do so this time too.
But he was reluctant to throw down on Nash. Maybe it was because the man had saved his life, though he had squared that away satisfactorily in his own mind. Or maybe it was simply that the man was so gut-full of raw courage, taking on those hardcase cowpokes that way, virtually going up against them single-handed. He could admire a man for that kind of guts ... and be reluctant to kill him.
He would do it, just the same, he knew that. But he would hate it.
He got to his feet, walked through to the big bedroom, and stood in front of a full-length mirror. He looked at himself critically, especially the slant of his gunbelt, the position of the six-gun’s butt in relation to his hand, when it hung loosely and naturally at his side. The curve of the Colt’s butt came just inside his wrist. In his opinion, that was an ideal position. He knew now that wearing a gun so low-slung had one serious drawback. If your horse was shot from under you and fell, pinning your leg, it pinned your gun too. But that wasn’t likely to happen again.
He moved the holster a little, tilting the top slightly forward and holding it there while he awkwardly drew the Colt out slowly. Yes, there was some improvement; the foresight and muzzle cleared leather a shade easier than when the holster hung fully vertical. Considine sat down on the edge of the bed and unbuckled the gunbelt. He took his jackknife from his pocket and snapped open the blade. He let the gun fall from the holster onto the bed. Then he took the point of the blade and began drilling a new hole through the heavy holster base, about an inch higher and to the rear of the existing one. When he had finished he pulled the thong out of the lower hole and threaded it through the new one.
Considine buckled on the rig again, minus the gun and tied down the base of the holster. He nodded in satisfaction. Making that new hole had given the whole rig a slightly forward angle. He dropped his gun into it, stood in front of the mirror again, flexed his fingers and spread his boots. He stared at his own reflection for a long minute. Suddenly his right arm seemed to jerk and there was a cocked gun in his hand.
He returned the six-gun to the holster. His arm jerked again and once more the gun was growing out of his fist. He did it three more times, arm snapping in the lightning-fast movement. No, he wasn’t imagining it, he told, himself ; he really didn’t see himself draw. He knew he was drawing the gun, saw it staring back at him, cocked and rock-steady in his fist, but he was damned if he could see—and follow—the movements of the actual draw.
A slow smile crept across Considine’s face. By hell, he didn’t know if it was the angle of the holster or not, but there was no getting away from it: he was faster than he had ever been! The cold twist in his guts began to slowly unknot. Fast? Hell, there wasn’t a man alive who could shade his draw now and that included Clay Nash!
He tensed at a knock on the door. He waited and it was repeated; not too loud; not too urgent; but there seemed to be a note of determination to it.
It was only minutes away from sundown.
Lynn turned to face him, standing in the center of the room. “I see you have noticed that it is almost sundown, Mr. Considine.”
The gunfighter put up his gun and arched his eyebrows. “Long time since a lady called me ‘mister’. You’re Mitch Enderby’s sister, aren’t you?”
“Half-sister. I have no quarrel with you over killing him. It was a fair enough fight, I hear, and I do not grieve for Mitch. So you can take your hand right off your gun butt. I have no intention of trying to kill you. In fact, I have come to ask you a favor.”
Considine smiled faintly. “Long time since a lady’s asked me for one of those, too. Well, I ain’t sayin’ I’m gonna grant it. but fire away, ma’am. Let’s hear it.”
Lynn seemed to lose a little of her confidence now and her white teeth tugged briefly at her bottom lip. She looked at his hard, chiseled features and then glanced away, wondering what insanity had driven her here to this man’s rooms. But she knew the answer to that and the knowledge gave her the determination to meet and hold his gaze as she said:
“I want you to back Clay Nash against the trail herders.”
Considine kept his face straight with an effort and his eyes narrowed. He stared at the girl for a long minute and she looked away, flushing a little under the intensity of his gaze.
“You don’t want much!” he said finally, sardonically.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Mr. Considine! I know how much I’m asking you.”
“Do you?” he snapped. “You reckon you know, huh?”
“Yes. You’re a gunfighter and you’re no longer in debt to Clay. He’s the law here and he’s asked you to leave town by sundown and everyone knows you won’t go, so that means, in a very few minutes, you could be facing each other over smoking guns out there in the plaza. You don’t like Nash any more than you like anyone. But you couldn’t afford to even allow yourself to like anyone, could you? That way you just might lose the edge that keeps you alive, if you cared even a little.”
His face was rock hard. “I don’t need you analyzin’ me. Nash and me’s got our differences and they’re all of his doin’. He had no call to put the clock on me. I would’ve moved on in my own good time. By tellin’ me when to go, he’s challenged me.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way ... ”
“He knew what he was doin’. He ain’t a fool. Besides, even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t make no never mind. It’s how it’d look to other folks. And I gotta think about that, even if Nash don’t.” Lynn sighed heavily. “He’s one man, against ... how many? Thirty? Maybe a few less. But the odds are far too steep for any one man to handle.”
“Mebbe for two, as well.”
“Not if you were one of them. Just your being there would probably be enough to deter them from moving in.”
“Nash’s a fool for buyin’ in in the first place.”
“Perhaps. But he felt obligated because he killed the town’s law. It doesn’t matter that Lucas and Morg Wheeler were corrupt and bad lawmen. Clay felt responsible for leaving the town without law when the trail herds were moving in and he’s tried to do something about it. When you get right down to it, Mr. Considine, it was all your fault in the first place.”
Considine looked surprised this time. “My fault?”
“Yes. You gunned down Mitch and you didn’t tell Clay the two men who were abusing you were lawmen.”
“Hell, no. That was their job, so don’t go blamin’ me, ma’am. Not that I give a damn.”
She looked at him tightly, hands on hips now. “No. You don’t give a damn about anybody but yourself!”
His jaw muscles knotted. “Easy!” he warned.
“It’s true!” she snapped. “And I don’t know why the devil I wasted my time coming here, thinking you might help.”
“Me neither,” he told her flatly.
Lynn gave an exasperated sigh and stepped swiftly around him, hurrying to the door. She went out without looking back and slammed the door hard after her.
Considine frowned and stared at the trembling door. Damned gall! First Nash, now that girl! But, by hell, he wished a girl like that would stand up for him, with fire in her eye, the way Lynn Enderby had stood up for Nash! If he’d had someone like that, way, way back, he might have been a different man today.
He swore softly. What the hell was he thinking? He didn’t want to be a different man. He was a loner, the fastest gun alive. That was what he had always wanted and that was what he was now. His kind couldn’t afford regrets.
The gunfighter walked over to the window and looked down into the plaza. Lynn Enderby was hurrying across the plaza through the thin traffic. He pulled the drapes back and looked out to the west, to the line of hills, now a black, saw-toothed silhouette.
Sundown.
Nine – The Violent Hours
Macklin decided to move his men into the Hangtree Saloon and join up with Regan. Cavendish was dead and there was only the head barkeep to run things. Regan soon intimidated him and virtually took over the saloon. The girls and gamblers were willing enough to go along with things for the moment. It meant that the Hangtree was wide open.
Lint Regan had no intention of putting any restrictions whatsoever on his men. The sun had gone down and he had made no move to get his men out of town. The dead cowpokes, who had been gunned down by Nash had been taken to the coroner’s, as had Cavendish’s body, and Regan gave his men, the girls, the gamblers, and anyone else who cared to join in, a free hand. Drink flowed across the bar like the Rio in flood. No one paid. Regan just told the barkeep to keep tally and put it all on his bill. The barman wondered if he would ever see the money, but he didn’t aim to argue with Regan this night.
The rangy trail-boss was savagely angry at the way Nash had downed two of his men and the saloonkeeper. He had run up against tough lawmen before, in the trail towns he had passed through, but had always managed to handle them and he would handle Nash, too.
He would show Nash and Socorro just what a wide-open town meant.
Regan made it clear from the start that he was running things and Macklin and his crew had better get used to the idea.
“Okay with me, Lint,” Macklin said. “We’ve both lost men to Nash and we both aim to get him, so I don’t give a damn who’s in charge of operations as long as we nail him. But, he ain’t gonna be easy. Don’t expect him to come runnin’ in here again like a runaway loco. He’ll soon know if we’ve set him up or not.”
Regan frowned and gave Macklin a sharp look. Clearly he had been figuring on setting a trap for Nash in just the way Macklin had mentioned.
Macklin decided to follow through while he had Regan’s attention. “I mean, no use us makin’ one helluva racket and loosin’ off a few shots into the air, hopin’ that Nash is gonna come bustin’ in through them batwings so we can gun him down. He’ll be awake-up to that old trick. He’ll take a damn good look around before he does come in, no matter how much racket we make.”
Regan scrubbed a hand across his lantern jaw. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to start takin’ this town apart. Nash reckons he’s concerned for the safety of the townsfolk. Maybe if he sees their property gettin’ wrecked or a fire started, he’ll get kinda reckless.”
Macklin looked dubious. “He’s no fool,” he reiterated. “I know some of his past record with Wells Fargo. Ain’t too many assignments he’s failed to finish.”
“Hell, we’re loco!” Regan said suddenly. “Look outside. Almost dark. Only the afterglow left.
Dusk, Mack! Past sundown in other words. He’ll have to come after us now to make good his threat. All we gotta do is sit back and wait.”
Macklin shook his head, “I don’t reckon he will. I mean, he’ll look for some way of gettin’ us out of town, all right, but he won’t just walk in here and tell us to vamoose. He might be out lookin’ for townsmen to back him now. And they just might, if they figure they can get the drop on us in one place, like here, and then march us out without any trouble.”
“It won’t happen,” Regan said confidently. “From what I hear he’s been tryin’ to get the townsmen behind him all day but the only ones who helped him before were that Wells Fargo agent and the girl ... Enderby’s sister, or cousin, or whatever she is.”
“Half-sister,” Macklin corrected him. “Lynn Enderby. She—”
He stopped speaking at the look on Regan’s face. The monkey-like Texan was smiling crookedly, viciously, thick lips peeling back from his big yellow teeth. Macklin looked a little startled and then he, too, began to smile, faintly at first, but as he began to think along the same lines as Regan, his smile spread from ear to ear.
They knew how to get Nash now.
~*~
Brewster stood in the law office and watched as Nash lit the oil lamp on the porch, then came back inside.
“What worries me is that the stage might’ve been hit by these loco trail herders,” Brewster said. “Oh, it ain’t anythin’ for it to be an hour or so late, I guess, but I happen to know that Midge Spadel is drivin’ down from Santa Fe and he’s the most ornery, clock-watchin’ cuss this side of the Painted Desert. He’ll kick a passenger out if he figures his weight is holdin’ him back from keepin’ to a timetable.” He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it again, for the third time in the few minutes since he had come into the law office. “Word is the U.S. Marshal could be ridin’ on it, too. I figured if he got here, he could lend us a hand.”