Clay Nash 7

by Brett Waring

  “Lend me a hand,” Nash corrected him. “No, don’t argue, Brewster. No sense in you stickin’ your neck out. Well, I guess there’s some logical explanation why the stage is a little late, but I can’t wait much longer before I make my move against Regan and Macklin. Almost full dark now.”

  “Yeah. Hear ’em? Sounds like they’re tearin’ the Hangtree apart.”

  “I won’t stop ’em doin’ that,” Nash said. “Different if they start in on the stores.”

  “You know Macklin’s crew’s with Regan’s over at the Hangtree now? Albany’s whinin’ that the Buckskin Bar ain’t doin’ any business.”

  There was a crash of glass that sounded like the big front window of the Hangtree being smashed. Nash glanced across the plaza. “Mebbe he’ll be glad he ain’t, when he hears that.”

  “You got any kind of a plan?”

  Nash nodded. “Yeah. Depends on how many nighthawks they left watching the herd though.”

  Brewster raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s easy. None. Those holdin’ grounds’ve got fences all the way around and big wire gates they close off at night. Be just the cattle agent’s watchman camped by the second gate where he can keep an eye on both grounds. What you aimin’ to do?”

  “Well, they’re cattlemen first, hardcases second, I figure,” the sheriff replied. “So I reckoned if anything happened to their herds, they’d go a’running and worry about defyin’ me afterwards.”

  Brewster thought about it briefly, then nodded admiringly. “By hell, it might work! What you gonna do? Stampede ’em?”

  “That’s what I figured. Get ’em really rollin’ so they’ll be ridin’ all damn night chasin’ ’em and half tomorrow roundin’ ’em up. They’ll be too goddamn tired to worry about Socorro or me much after that. But, if they do, maybe the stage’ll be here by then with the marshal.”

  “And maybe you’ll have the town behind you, when they see that these hombres can be stopped by one man, Nash!”

  “Maybe. But I wasn’t countin’ on that part. Considine won’t move because of the cattle.”

  Brewster’s face straightened. “Yeah. He’s the fly in the ointment.”

  “I’ll take one thing at a time,” Nash said, adjusting his hat and checking the loads in his six-gun. Then he took down his Winchester from the wall rack and checked that there was a bullet in the chamber. He lowered the hammer spur gently under his thumb.

  “I’d come with you but I better hang around for that damned stage,” Brewster told him, frowning.

  “Relax. It’ll be okay. I didn’t see any of the trail men leaving town, so they wouldn’t have had anything to do with the delay.”

  Brewster sighed. “Likely you’re right.” As Nash prepared to leave, Brewster shuffled his boots a little uncomfortably and Nash frowned, waiting at the door.

  “You comin’?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess.” He started forward and then stopped in front of Nash. “Listen, Nash, maybe I’m doin’ the wrong thing. I know I’m breakin’ my word to Lynn, but I reckon you gotta know …”

  Nash was tense now. “Breakin’ your word about what?”

  “Well, she’s still in town, didn’t go home before after she patched you up. Fact, she left her shotgun with me while she went someplace.”

  He paused and Nash asked, a little tersely, “Went where?”

  Brewster looked at him levelly, hesitated a moment or two longer, then said, “To see Considine.”

  Nash stiffened. “What?”

  “Yeah. She could see how blamed stubborn you were being and figured you were only gonna get yourself in trouble. So she went to see Considine, to ask him if he’d back you against the trail men.”

  “Hell!” Nash breathed. “You seen her since?”

  Brewster nodded. “She came back for her shotgun, fumin’. So I guess he said no.”

  “What else would you expect him to say!” Nash snapped. “Where is she now?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, but I do know she’s somewhere in town. She’s got the loco notion that she’s gonna be able to help you in some way. Made me promise not to tell you, but I don’t like the idea of her on the streets with these drunken cowpokes runnin’ loose.”

  “Damn right you don’t like it! Neither do I! Got any idea at all where she might be holed-up?”

  Brewster thought, his frown deepening. “I guess it’d be someplace around the plaza where she could watch here and see what you were doin’. She’d want to be able to keep an eye on the Hangtree, too, and be close enough to step in to help you if she had to.”

  “Okay, that narrows it down to the quadrant on the west side. What’ve we got there? The emporium. Livery. Barber’s shop. Blacksmith’s forge. Dressmaker’s. Your depot ... ”

  “Well, she ain’t there, I can tell you that much.”

  “How about the dressmaker’s?”

  “Doubt it. Lynn makes all her own clothes. Could be the livery. Up in the loft above the street. Huxley might’ve backed down about helpin’ you with a gun, but he wouldn’t mind her goin’ up there with the Greener.”

  Nash was already halfway out the door. “Close up for me. I wish to hell you’d told me about this earlier, Brewster!”

  The Wells Fargo agent looked away. He wished he had told Nash earlier too.

  The sheriff walked swiftly around the plaza on the boardwalk, pausing briefly to look in the dressmaker’s shop, but it was in total darkness. A fire glowed in the blacksmith’s forge but there was no one there, either. The emporium was still open and Nash went in. The storekeeper told him he had not seen Lynn Enderby since early afternoon.

  Nash stood outside the store, looking across at the Hangtree Saloon. The big window was smashed and he could see the cowpokes whooping it up inside. The piano was belting out a tune but was almost drowned out by the raucous singing and shouting of the drunken men. So far they had contained their violence and carousing to the saloon itself, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before they overflowed into the streets and started on the rest of the town. That was why he had not wanted any delay in putting his plan into action out at the cattle-holding grounds. But he had to find Lynn Enderby and make sure she was safe first. He strode swiftly to the livery and went in through the big doors.

  “Huxley!” he yelled urgently. He waited but there was no reply. “Huxley, damn it! Where the hell are you!”

  There was still no reply. All he could hear were the horses in the stalls stamping restively.

  “Lynn!” Nash veiled, starting towards the ladder leading to the loft. “You up there?”

  No reply. Thumbing back the rifle hammer, Nash started to climb the ladder slowly. He crouched as he neared the top, then threw himself over the uppermost three rungs onto the bed of hay, rolling away from the edge, rifle coming around, ready to shoot. But there was no one there. He called the girl’s name again, then crawled to the opening that looked out over the plaza.

  There was no sign of the girl anywhere and he cursed. Damn it, this would be the best place for her if she really intended to back him with the shotgun. There was no other place that would give her such a good view of the Hangtree, the law office and the plaza in between. Which, of course, didn’t mean that she had to choose this position. She might consider somewhere else the best place for what she had in mind.

  But he had this hunch crawling up his spine like a tarantula; something had happened to the girl while she had been trying to help him.

  He rolled over onto his back swiftly, bringing the rifle around. There was nothing behind him, but he had heard some kind of noise. He froze, stilling his breathing, ears straining. There it was again. From down below in the stables. At first he thought it must be one of the horses stamping, but then he realized he was hearing groans as well as scraping, dragging sounds. It sounded like a man’s voice groaning, either with strain or pain or both.

  Nash went slowly and cautiously to the top of the ladder, rifle at the ready. He peered down into the lantern-lit stall area
, staying in the deep shadow, not moving, just letting his gaze search below. He must have waited a full minute before he heard the sounds again: the dragging and the moans.

  Nash turned his gaze towards the rear of the stables. In the darkness against a stall partition he caught a faint movement, a kind of grayness where there had been only blackness before. He brought the rifle over gently away from the straw and his clothes, so that there were no rustling sounds. The butt settled into his shoulder and he rested his cheek against the polished stock. He sighted down the blued steel of the barrel, holding the foresight blade on that patch of grayness.

  It moved again and there were the dragging sounds but no moans this time. Nash stiffened as a hand appeared in the light of the passageway between the stalls. Even from here, and in the bad light, he could see the skinned knuckles and the streaks of blood on the torn flesh. He didn’t move except to ease up the pressure on the trigger a little. Nash waited and slowly another bleeding hand appeared, the fingers clawing into the hard packed dirt of the stables, straining as they drew forward the body from the deep shadows.

  It was Huxley and he was badly hurt. Nash could see the blood on his shirt, or the shreds of cloth that were all that remained of it. The man’s hair was matted with blood and dirt and he lifted a strained, gray, blood-streaked face towards the loft.

  Nash went down the ladder swiftly into the livery below. He hurried across to where Huxley had now rolled over onto his back. Nash grimaced when he saw the man close up; the liveryman had been stomped on and beaten up badly. The lawman knelt beside him.

  “Clay Nash, Huxley. Who did this? Regan’s men?”

  Huxley stared at him with pain-filled eyes and nodded. He tried to speak, his broken mouth moving but only guttural sounds coming from his throat.

  Nash’s voice was tight now. “Did they take Lynn Enderby down from the loft?”

  Again Huxley nodded. He reached up a clawed hand and tugged at Nash’s shirt sleeve. “Tried to st-stop ’em ... Too m-many ... ”

  “You did okay,” Nash muttered. “Where’d they take her?”

  “Dunno ... saloon, I guess.”

  Nash nodded, squeezed the man’s shoulder very lightly. “Right. I’ll send a sawbones over.”

  The liveryman grabbed at Nash’s trousers and he started to say something else, but Nash didn’t wait for him. He ran down the aisle to the big double doors, paused, looking across towards the Hangtree Saloon. There was still all the noise and racket of a wild night there. Nash ran along the boardwalk to the emporium and hurried inside.

  “Huxley’s badly hurt in the livery,” he told the storekeeper. “See the sawbones gets to him, will you?”

  The man stared and Nash turned to go but swung back, frowning, seeing the fear on the man’s face.

  “What’s up ... ?” Nash began and then he saw movement at the back of the store, behind some sacks of grain and potatoes.

  He dropped to one knee, thumbing back the rifle hammer as he did so, blasting with it as a man with a six-gun stepped out. Nash’s bullet took him in the center of the chest and flung him back hard against the stacked bags.

  Nash swung to the left as harness tackle clanked together and a gun blasted at him even as he rolled away and came over onto his belly again, shooting, working the lever and firing a second time. A man reared up, sobbing, staggered forward and entangled himself in the harness and saddle gear, pulling it down from the rafter pegs as he collapsed. The lawman levered in a fresh shell, spun around, but the white-faced storekeeper shook his head swiftly.

  “No more. There was just the two of ’em. Regan planted ’em here. Said you might stop in after goin’ to the livery.”

  Nash stood up, frowning. “He was expecting me to go to the livery?”

  “Seems like. Said somethin’ about Lynn Enderby waitin’ there with a shotgun. They were gonna get her and …”

  “Nash!”

  The name came across the plaza clearly and the lawman realized that the drunken sounds from the Hangtree had quietened now.

  “That’s Regan!” breathed the storekeeper.

  Nash hurried to the doorway, stepped swiftly through and into the shadows of the emporium’s wall. Regan and Macklin were standing outside the Hangtree Saloon, in the plaza itself. Regan had Lynn Enderby by the arm. Macklin held a six-gun in his hand.

  “Throw down that rifle, Nash!” Regan called.

  Nash didn’t hesitate. He tossed the Winchester out into the street.

  “Okay. Now come on over, hands clasped on top of your head!”

  Nash hesitated briefly, then placed his hands on top of his hat and stepped out of the wall’s shadow. He stepped down into the plaza and began to walk across with slow, measured steps, his mind working fast all the time. The Wells Fargo depot was too far off for any help to reach him from there, the way they were holding the girl. There was no one else he could count on, so it looked like he was alone ... and they had him cold-decked.

  He saw the drunken trail hands lined up at the batwings and the broken window of the saloon, as well as out on the boardwalk. They started to call remarks as he approached. The girl struggled vainly in Regan’s grip.

  “You’re all through, Nash!” Regan called. He turned and cuffed Lynn across the side of the head and Nash stopped, tensing. “Keep on comin’, Nash! I’ll tell you when to stop, you son of a bitch!”

  Nash started forward again, slowly, hands on top of his head, but he had loosened his fingers some now. If he had to, he could get them apart fast and make a try for his gun ... if only Lynn could get out of the line of fire. Macklin lifted his six-gun, his leathery face hard and deadly.

  “We both got plenty to square with you, Nash!” he said. “And so’ve the boys!”

  “You’re gonna wish you’d never heard of Socorro by the time we’re …” Regan began.

  A gun roared from the left and Regan stopped speaking in mid-sentence, his body stiffening as he lifted to his toes, his back arched abnormally. He screamed in pain as he fell and the weight of his body sent Lynn sprawling. She cried out and Nash leapt towards her, driving down for his Colt as Macklin swung his gun towards him. The other six-gun roared again, twice, and Macklin jerked as lead tore into his body.

  There were yells from the cowpokes in the saloon and guns appeared in the lantern light. Nash caught a glimpse of a tall, lean form coming out of the shadows of a shop awning, gun hammering, and each time the gun roared a cowpoke threw up his hands and either staggered backwards or fell forward across the broken window frame. Nash lifted his own gun as he dragged Lynn behind him but there was no need to shoot. The cowpokes were throwing down their weapons and reaching into the air, sobering fast.

  There was the sound of pounding feet and Nash, a little dazed and bewildered, turned to see Brewster leading a dozen men forward across the plaza, all armed. He recognized one as the storekeeper.

  “After seeing what they done to Huxley, we finally got enough, Nash,” the storekeeper panted. “Hope we ain’t too late to be of some help.”

  “You’re doin’ just fine,” Nash said, smiling faintly. “Tell them cowpokes to get on out of town ... after they pay for wreckin’ the saloon ... and there’ll be no more said.” He glanced at the two dead trail-bosses. “Their leaders are dead.” He moved his gaze to the lean man who had shot down both Regan and Macklin so coldly and with such deadly efficiency. Considine had already reloaded his six-gun and returned it to his holster. He walked into the light and stared past Nash to the girl.

  “You can see what my decision was, I guess,” he told her quietly.

  Lynn stepped up alongside the puzzled Nash, looking at the tall gunfighter. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Didn’t do it for him,” Considine said, jerking his head towards Nash.

  “Who then?”

  The gunfighter stared at her for a long moment, ignoring the racket as the townsmen herded the cowpokes out of the saloon and across the plaza towards the livery.

  “L
et’s just say I wished I’d had a gal who cared enough for me to do what you did,” Considine said curtly. “I’m sorry.”

  Puzzled, Lynn echoed, “Sorry? For what?”

  “For the rest of it. This.” He swung his gaze to Nash. “You and me ... we’ve got our reckonin’ to come.”

  “No!” the girl gasped. “It’s over now! There’s no need!”

  “Sure there is,” Considine said, not taking his eyes off Nash’s face. “I just got to find out who’s the fastest. I’m sure it’s me, but there’s only one way to prove it.”

  Lynn grabbed Nash’s arm. “Clay! Don’t let this happen! He backed you, he helped this town. Can’t he just ride out now?”

  “As far as I’m concerned he can,” Nash said. “But it don’t suit him to, Lynn. Like the man says: he just has to know.”

  “But you ... !”

  “Brewster!” Nash called, cutting in on her words. “Take her!”

  Brewster hurried across, looking worried, shaking his head at Nash. The lawman ignored him and ignored Lynn’s protests too, as the Wells Fargo agent led her away. Others had moved back and there was only Considine now, facing Nash in the plaza.

  “You’re set on it?” Nash asked.

  “You know I am,” Considine said quietly.

  “Then let’s get it over with,” Nash told him and they moved out into the center where there was plenty of room. They each moved a little, finding the position that seemed to suit them best, out of the line of lamplight, or on a flat piece of ground.

  Settled, they stood facing each other, hands down at their sides, eyes holding to each other’s faces, every muscle tensed and alert despite their efforts to relax.

  “You call it,” Nash said and was almost caught unawares when Considine replied instantly: