Clay Nash 17

by Brett Waring

  Nash checked his guns and started into the tunnel. He could see the patch of reflected light clearly now, outlining a bend in the natural tunnel.

  He went in crouched-over, let his hat hang down his back by the tie thong, for the roof was very low. He came to the bend, went around warily and saw the other end of the tunnel only a few yards away. Nash cocked his Colt as he went forward, able to stand straighter here; the roof was higher.

  Then he froze as a figure appeared at the far end, a blanket clad form with eagle feathers in its braided hair.

  Nash’s heart hammered, primeval instincts sending his blood racing, frantic thoughts in his head telling him that it was the ghost of Gray Dog ...

  Then a gun blasted, a shotgun, and his training made him drop instantly. The charge of buckshot whistled overhead, and some whined and spat off the walls, peppering his upper shoulders. He snapped a shot at the figure, rolled in against the tunnel wall as the shotgun’s second barrel thundered and filled the passage with noise and flame.

  Nash’s Colt hammered and the form up there reared back with a very un-ghost-like curse, and he heard the shotgun clatter to the rock. Then the blanket dropped away and he caught a glimpse of a man in half boots and with suspenders holding up muddy trousers, clawing at a dangling arm as he dived for cover beyond the tunnel mouth,

  Nash ran forward, flattened against the rock, Colt cocked and as he eased out into the sunlight. He saw spots of blood on the rocks, the old shotgun with the wired-up butt that had split long ago and been crudely mended. He spun towards a sound to his left and a man leapt at him, hair wild, face bearded and mud-spattered, swinging at him with a pickaxe. Nash pulled his head back and the force of the blow sent the man stumbling forward. Nash hit him behind the ear with the gun barrel, drove him to his knees and kicked the pickaxe from his one good hand. The other arm was bleeding from the gunshot wound.

  Nash heaved the man over onto his back with a boot toe and looked down into the clay-clogged, bearded face of a man about sixty, or older.

  He had never seen him before, but, beyond, he saw signs of a campsite, two old burros, and, in a wall of the cliff in the hidden canyon, the entrance to a mine, shored-up with timbers, cluttered with a tailings pile so high it must have taken many years to build.

  He smiled faintly. He thought he knew now the secret of the ghost of Hangman’s Spur ...

  The old man said his name was Fish, just Fish. He couldn’t remember ever having a first name, but conceded that maybe he hadn’t used it in such a long time that he had simply forgotten it.

  He was a sourdough prospector and had been scouring the hills for over fifty years. He had no idea how old he was. Time had ceased to exist for this old man many years ago. Haunted by a recurring dream, he had traipsed through these hills in search of his El Dorado, his bonanza of gold.

  In the dream, certain signs had come to him and they had led him to that hidden canyon, only it hadn’t been so hidden when he first arrived. Over the years he had blasted down walls to seal the trail in, and it was only by sheer luck that a tunnel out had been left through the rocks. So he had covered the mouth of it where it came out onto the ledge, figuring he might have need for an exit and entrance known only to himself.

  It would be handy for toting out his gold on his old burros.

  But he never did locate his bonanza, the rich mother lode he had been chasing all these years. He had tunneled over two miles through solid rock, wearing down his pickaxes, making sorties out from his hidden canyon occasionally to steal fresh tools from settlers camped at the foot of the Spur.

  After the hanging of Gray Dog, it had come to him that he could keep folk right away from his secret mine by fostering the legend he had heard about the old Indian’s ghost appearing to pilgrims passing by. He knew those early stories had only been glimpses of rocks at strange angles that looked like an Indian rider. So he had used his blanket and a couple of feathers stuck in his hair and appeared from time to time on his ledge, frightening off folk he was afraid might try to settle in the vicinity and be a danger to him working his fugitive gold vein ...

  “I’ll never find gold now,” he concluded, sadly. “Never ... too blamed late ... now I’m dyin’ …”

  Aggie looked swiftly at Nash who frowned and shook his head slightly. The old man had decided he was dying and Nash had allowed him to think so to encourage Fish to tell his story voluntarily. Nash’s shot had taken him under the left collarbone and was low enough down for the man to think he was fatally hit, as it bled copiously. Nash had carried the old prospector back to where Aggie and Cassidy were waiting.

  “Never meant no harm to anyone,” Fish said. “Just wanted to scare folk off ... so’s I could find my gold ... When I seen you comin’ through the tunnel, I figured you was after it ... Glad I never nailed you with the shotgun. Was my last two shells. Years old ...”

  “Forget it, old-timer. We don’t want your gold.”

  “Might’s well have it now,” he croaked. “No use to me ... Reckon another foot of diggin’ and you’ll hit the big vein ... Someone ought to get the use of it after all this time.”

  Aggie looked sad as she worked on the old man’s wound. She frowned at Nash, not liking his methods of working much. Cassidy sat close by, looking at the prospector.

  “I guess them burros ain’t wearin’ shoes, old-timer?” he asked.

  Fish shook his head. “Fazed a lot of folk tryin’ to find tracks on that ledge but, ’course the burros never left any.” He turned his rheumy gaze towards Nash. “You had a deal of luck findin’ that passage, mister.”

  “I know it. Listen, Fish, I got to tell you, you ain’t dying. You’re not that bad hit. I just let you think that ...”

  Fish’s eyes widened and he stared wildly at Nash, shifted his gaze to the girl, started to sit up, but gagged on a wave of pain and sagged back against the rock again. He was breathing fast, raking them all with an angry stare.

  “It was a trick! You are after my gold!”

  Nash pushed him down gently, shaking his head. “No, old-timer. We don’t want your gold. If there’s any there, it’s yours. You deserve it after working for it all this time. We don’t want any part of it.”

  He didn’t believe them at first but, finally, Aggie convinced him that his El Dorado was safe from them.

  “Then—what do you want?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Some information,” Nash said. “About the stage hold-up down there a week or so back ...”

  Fish’s face straightened. He was silent for a spell, looking finally at Cassidy. He nodded slowly.

  “Thought you looked a mite familiar,” he said. “You was the guard, wasn’t you? Got throwed when the stage crashed?”

  Cassidy nodded, his whole body tensing. “That was me! You saw it then! You saw what happened?”

  “Sure. Seen the lot. Except the very first. I heard the gunfire and figured I’d better take me a look. Sometimes owlhoots make a run into these here hills and I like to make sure they don’t come anywheres near my canyon, see ...? So when I got out, on the ledge here, the stage was careering crazily along the trail, minus a driver, this here feller blazin’ away at a bunch of riders doin’ their best to nail him. Then the stage hit a rock and rolled and he was shot off that seat like an arrow from a bow. Hit mighty hard, huh, son?” He nodded towards Cassidy’s slung arm and the bandages around his ribs showing beneath his shirt.

  “I was knocked unconscious. I started to come around and I think I saw you on this ledge ...”

  Fish nodded. “I was here, but I faded back when the other feller showed up.”

  “Who?” Nash asked. “One of the bandits? It was Moss Dooley’s gang attacked the stage.”

  “I knowed that. I recognized that sonuver.” Fish shook his head. “Nope, they’d long gone. Dragged some feller outa the stage and stripped him of a money belt, looked like, went through the other bodies’ pockets and rode off with the strongbox.”

  “Then who was this other man?�
�� Nash asked. “And what did he do?”

  “Oh, he went to the front of the stage, walkin’ right past all the bodies strewed about. I figured that was kinda strange. He looked all wet and tore up, but he wasn’t checkin’ to see if anyone was still alive. No, sir, he went to the front of the stage, tore off some timber and took out some leather satchels from under the seat.”

  Aggie squeezed Cassidy’s shoulder excitedly and smiled, but he was watching the old-timer closely. Nash was tensed.

  “What did he do with the satchels?” he asked quietly.

  “Took ’em into the rocks. I couldn’t see where he went ’cause he was too close in to the base of the Spur. But he came out again soon after, caught one of the hosses that was runnin’ around and rode out, west, circlin’ the Spur and goin’ straight into the hills.”

  “Get a good look at him?” Nash asked.

  Fish nodded slowly. “Good enough to recognize him again. Big feller, tough-looking. He was banged-up some, bleeding, but he was wearin’ range clothes, a blue shirt, cowhide vest, black-and-white, brown whipcords tucked into half boots ...”

  Nash glanced at Cassidy who, tight-lipped, said:

  “Ralls! No wonder you never found his body!”

  Nine – Death Cache

  The old prospector was loco, but there was a lot of sanity still in him, too, and Nash didn’t doubt him for a second.

  Fish might be obsessed with finding a gold bonanza but he had filled in too many details for him to be lying about the man who had appeared on foot and taken the satchels from the front of the wrecked stagecoach. In any case, he had absolutely nothing to gain by lying.

  Fifty thousand dollars in cash wouldn’t have much interest for an old sourdough like Fish. He had only one vision, only one thing meant riches to him: gold. But likely he wasn’t even after riches. His kind often only wanted the thrill of the chase after the gold and, once they had won it from the earth, they oftentimes didn’t know what to do with it. Or didn’t care what happened to it. It was why prospectors usually cut loose when they hit town in a wild spree: not so much as a release from all the hard months or years out in the wilderness, but as a quick way of getting rid of their gold so that they would have an excuse to go back and look for more.

  Gold fever was simply that: a ‘fever’, just like an illness, and the cure could only be temporary in many cases. Fish was one of these ...

  So Nash knew that, if Fish had gone down there and found the fifty thousand dollars, he likely would have left it there, maybe taken sufficient to outfit himself with some new tools or grub, but that was all. The color of treasure was golden, as far as Fish was concerned, not the green ink of Capitol-printed paper money bills.

  “Sounds like Ralls rolled into that river when he jumped out of the coach or fell, or whatever,” Nash told the others. “He likely got carried a ways downstream with the current and, by the time he’d pulled himself out onto the banks again, it was all over. Or maybe he got out of the river right off, but laid low until Dooley and his bunch left.”

  “But how did he know there was money hidden under the driver’s seat?” asked Cassidy puzzledly. “I was the guard and I never knew. Loco Larrabee the driver didn’t know about it ... How come Ralls did? And he must’ve, ’cause Fish said he went straight to it.”

  “That’s right, son, he did,” confirmed the old prospector, sipping from the cup of coffee that Aggie had brewed. “Stepped over all you fellers lyin’ about without a glance. He only had one thing on his mind, that hombre, and that was them satchels.”

  “So he must’veknown about the money in advance!” Aggie said, looking straight at Nash.

  The Wells Fargo man nodded. “Sure seems that way. How he found out is another matter. But it looks like you’re in the clear, Matt.”

  “Looks like it!” echoed Aggie. “Surely there’s no doubt now that he’s innocent, Nash?”

  Clay Nash smiled slowly. “Not in your mind, I guess, ma’am. Nor in mine, to be honest. But Jim Hume’s a thorough man, and I figure he’ll reserve judgment until he nails Ralls or his accomplices.”

  Aggie’s eyes flashed. “Ridiculous!”

  Cassidy took one of her hands in his good one and squeezed. “It’s fair enough, Aggie. But I feel way better about it now. Hume can’t ignore this evidence. He’ll have to withdraw the charges against me.”

  “I’ll see to that,” Nash promised. He glanced at the old prospector. “You write, old-timer?”

  Fish shook his head. “Can’t read, neither. Leastways, not much. Few words. Why?”

  Nash shrugged. “Thought I might get your statement in writing. I figure you won’t want a whole heap of folk crowdin’ up here to ask you a lot of questions.”

  Fish straightened, wincing as his wound hurt. “By hell I don’t! I’ll blow that tunnel closed forever, you bring a bunch of townsfolk out here!”

  “Take it easy. I won’t. Your secret’s safe with us, Fish.”

  The old prospector flicked his gaze to all three of them, one at a time, studying each carefully before moving on. He sipped his coffee.

  “Long time since I’ve had any real contact with folks,” he said, speaking into the tin cup, his coarse voice echoing a little. “Been talkin’ to the burros and the squirrels and the ground-hogs for years now. But I used to be able to pick whether folks was good or bad. I reckon you’re all right. I trust you.”

  “I hope you find your bonanza, Mr. Fish,” said Aggie, smiling.

  “Will one day. If I live long enough.” He grinned toothlessly at the looks on their faces. “Don’t ask me what I’ll do with it when I do ...”

  “You’ll live out the rest of your life in ease, of course,” Aggie said. “It’s the only sensible thing to do.”

  Fish cackled. “Prospectors ain’t noted for their good sense, ma’am. But tell you what I’ll do: you leave me your address. If ever I do strike it rich, I’ll take out a little for my needs, whatever they might be at the time, and I’ll send you word and that husky young husband of yours can come on up and dig out what he wants.”

  Nash saw the flare of real hope in the girl’s eyes for a moment, and then it dulled as good sense set in and she smiled and thanked Fish, knowing full well they would never hear from this old fossicker. Still, there was always hope, vague though it may be ...

  He wouldn’t come down from his ledge, but he showed Nash where he had seen Ralls go into the rocks with the satchels. He swore no one had been back since to collect them, at least, not during daylight hours.

  Fish shook hands all round, accepted some food and ammunition, but refused to come down to Spanish Creek for proper medical attention. He went back into his tunnel and Nash set the rock in place.

  “D’you think he’ll be all right?” Aggie asked with concern.

  Nash shrugged. “Fellers like Fish are mighty tough. But, if things go against him, he wouldn’t want to end his days in some doctor’s infirmary. He’d rather die trying to swing a pickaxe into the spot he believes his bonanza to be. Now let’s see if we can find these satchels of money ...”

  They moved down from the ledge and walked their horses into the area where the prospector had seen Ralls disappear.

  “One other thing, Nash,” Aggie said, frowning. “Where has Ralls been all this time? In fact, where is he right now?”

  “I don’t know the answer to either question,” Nash admitted. “But I’m beginning to think I just might know how to find out.”

  The Cassidys looked at him expectantly but he said no more and began to scout around amongst the rocks to see if he could locate the hidden satchels of money.

  It looked like being a near-impossible task, for there were rocks of all sizes scattered clear across this section of the slope and there must have been at least a hundred places where the money could be hidden; so it seemed to Nash.

  The more he saw of this deal, the more he realized that it had all been carefully planned. This was no spur-of-the-moment theft, Ralls finding the money by
accident, then just stumbling across this area where it would take a whole army of men a month to locate the hiding place.

  This had been planned down to the last detail and Nash was slowly beginning to gather up the loose ends. But he knew he was a long way yet from finding the complete answer.

  By sundown they had found nothing. They made camp close in to the base of Hangman’s Spur, and Nash was quiet as they ate the evening meal.

  “What’s the next move?” Aggie asked, ever-ready for action that would help clear Matt’s name.

  Nash set down his plate, wiped a hand across his lips. He looked straight at the girl, flicked his gaze to Cassidy.

  “I want you two to head back to Spanish Creek come sunup.”

  “What!” the girl echoed.

  Cassidy sat up straight, grabbing at his slung arm, wincing a little.

  “Go back to Jim Hume. Wouldn’t be surprised if you run into him at the head of a posse on its way out here. Tell him what’s happened. If you want, I’ll write it out so you’ll have something to back you up.”

  Aggie started to speak again, but Cassidy put a hand to her forearm, stopping her. “And what d’you aim to do?”

  “Well, that money’s been cached, and I’m betting it hasn’t yet been collected. The posse and Jim Hume and I have been nosin’ around out here, the clean-up crew’ve been in to salvage what they could from the stage wreck. My notion is, if Ralls is somewhere about, he hasn’t yet had a clear chance at slipping back to collect that money.”

  “I see. You’re gonna stick around and jump him, is that it?”

  Nash smiled slowly. “Not exactly. He might be willing to let things set for quite a spell. I could grow old and gray waitin’ for him to show.”

  The girl frowned. “Then what’re you going to do?”

  “I’m aimin’ to goose him some. Get him a’runnin’ for that cache so’s he can get his hands on it, pronto, before Wells Fargo pick it up again.”