Clay Nash 5

by Brett Waring

  “Sure. Out back at the bench. You want a room for the night?”

  “If you can fix it. And have someone take care of my palomino outside.”

  “Sure thing. You go wash-up and I’ll have someone tote your warbag up to room nine, top of the stairs, two doors right. Be needin’ anythin’ else?”

  “Iodine and some warm water and brine to soak my hands in. Manage it?”

  “No trouble. And, mister, I’d just like to say I admire your guts. You must want that job awful bad.”

  Nash looked at him steadily. “Where’s this wash-bench?” he asked quietly.

  The barkeep hurried from behind the counter to show him the way out to the bench at the rear of the saloon. There were three tin basins and a pump, some lye soap and a damp rag that would have to serve as a towel. The barman went back inside and Nash pulled off his jerkin and shirt, shivering in the chilly air. The water from the pump was icy and he turned to look at his torso and ribcage in the light spilling out from the saloon’s rear door. There was an angry red patch over his ribs and he gingerly felt around it and was relieved to find no obvious cracks or breaks in his ribs, but it sure was tender. There were other red splotches that would turn to ugly purple bruises by morning. He stooped over the basin of water and sluiced a double handful up into his face, gasping and arching back swiftly at its iciness.

  The movement saved his life.

  A gun crashed from behind him and a bullet punched a hole in the clapboard wall just in front of his face, missing him by a hair. Nash instantly dropped into a crouch and by the time he was on one knee and spinning towards the darkness, his Colt Peacemaker was in his fist and blazing at the sound of someone moving behind a stack of crates. There was a surprised and agonized cry and the crates spilled over as a man stumbled out, his gun roaring wildly, one hand clawing at his side. Nash threw himself flat, triggering again and seeing the dark shape of the man rear up with the impact of lead and go over backwards. He did not move again but by that time, two more guns were hammering at Nash from both sides of the yard. Lead clattered off the washbasin and, water showering down on him, Nash rolled, firing across his body at a gun flash. He was under the bench now and wood splinters flew and stabbed at his flesh as bullets chewed them from the support post.

  He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand, planted the elbow firmly in the earth and dropped hammer just as one gun to his right fired again. A man grunted and Nash rolled to his left as lead spat gravel into his face. The third six-gun roared in three fast shots and he winced as a bullet burned across his bare back, just flicking a shoulder blade like the hot tip of a branding iron. The wounded man was making a lot of noise as he stumbled about and Nash spotted his silhouette against a patch of light. He triggered and saw the man’s body jerk, put his last shot into him and the killer crashed over a pile of empty bottles and rolled onto his back.

  As Nash hurriedly shucked shells from his belt to reload, he froze, listening. A man was running down the alley behind the saloon, boots pounding heavily. He jumped to his feet, thumbing in cartridges on the run, but by the time he reached the gate in the back fence, he heard a horse galloping away into the night and he knew he had lost his man.

  Wearily, he continued to reload as he walked slowly back towards the saloon and the men pouring out of the rear door to meet him.

  Three – Outpost

  The relay station was at a place known as Longknife, an old battleground where a famous confrontation between the Blackfeet Indians and the Cavalry had taken place ten years earlier. Many Indian braves had died by the sword—the ‘longknives’ as the red men called them—and the name had stuck to this bloody place, but the Indians had moved on north towards the Canadian border to new lands.

  Everything was green up here, Nash thought, as he rode his palomino down the mountain trail towards the relay station, green with reds and yellows and browns a blaze of color. The sky seemed a brighter blue than down in Texas, crystal clear, the mountain peaks, though at a great distance, sharper in outline. He guessed it had something to do with the elevation and the thinner air. It was scenic, easy on the eye, even breathtaking, but too damned cold for Nash’s liking. It seemed to aggravate his aches and pains and he gingerly touched the swollen and blackened left eye, wincing. It would be days before that went down sufficiently for him to see with absolute clarity again. His ribs ached, his back was stiff, and his fingers felt like they had been caught in a mangle. And he had won the fight! Maybe it was some compensation to realize that Slade, wherever he was, must be feeling every bit as bad, if not worse.

  There had been some trouble with the local law in Shiloh at first, after the shooting. The sheriff was a dried-out man called Cable, once a good gunfighter but now gone to seed and bitter about it. He had seemed disappointed when Nash had identified himself as a Wells Fargo undercover agent, almost as if he regretted passing up the opportunity to throw someone in his cell-block. He grumbled about the county having to pay for the burial of the two nameless men Nash had shot behind the saloon and had no theories to offer, or even opinions, about the trouble Wells Fargo was having. Nash was glad to ride out of town for he had the feeling that Cable, out of sheer cussedness and boredom, might find some excuse to throw him in jail.

  He had been on the alert for drygulchers along the trail but had seen no one at all, though there had been several good positions for ambush along the way. It seemed that, for the moment anyway, Slade and his friends had had enough of Clay Nash. Which suited Nash fine.

  As he rode in on the relay station he spotted Jed Summers and Mary. They were taking no chances: the sun glinted from the double barrels of the shotgun that Jed held across his chest and Mary stood in the doorway with a Winchester down at her side. He knew it would be cocked and ready to lift and fire if necessary. Nash smiled faintly, then lifted a hand and waved casually. He was not surprised when neither moved nor relaxed in any way that he could see. He was riding with the sun at his back and, as yet, they could not be certain of his identity and were playing it safe right down the line.

  It told him just how serious was the trouble out here, for they were expecting him, yet they could not take chances until he was positively identified. His mouth was grim as he heeled the palomino and urged it to a faster pace. By the time he was entering the station yard near the corrals, Jed and Mary Summers had recognized him and they came hurrying towards him, Mary almost running, her long chestnut hair streaming out behind her.

  Nash grinned as he swung down from the saddle and braced himself as she ran to him and threw her arms about him, crushing him and making him groan involuntarily. Startled, Mary stepped back, her green eyes showing concern. “Oh, Clay! Your face!”

  “Not to mention my ribs!” Nash laughed and pulled her to him, ignoring the waves of pain as he held her tightly, then leaned down and kissed her.

  “I sure as hell hope you ain’t figurin’ on greetin’ me thataway!” growled Jed Summers, his shotgun trailing from one hand.

  Nash grinned and, keeping his left arm about Mary’s waist, held out his right hand towards her grizzled father. “I’ll settle for a handshake!”

  “Me, too,” grinned Summers, gripping hard with Nash. “Good to see you again, boy! We can sure use you here! And I don’t mean as a roustabout.”

  “Come on up to the house,” said Mary.

  His arm still around Mary, Jed trudging along on the other side, Nash looked about him as they approached the way-station buildings. They were solid, built in the usual Wells Fargo style with an air of permanence. Their construction was proof that Wells Fargo intended to keep this stage line open at all costs. The main accommodation building and the dining hall for through passengers, were built of red cedar logs, notched and locked in place at the corners, planed flat top and bottom so that they met flush and needed no packing in between. The roof was shingled and sealed inside with narrow planks butted together.

  It would stand up to all weathers and there could be a ton of snow on that roo
f without it straining the big six-by-six rafters. A large stone fireplace at one end of the dining hall would warm the whole place once logs were burning there.

  The other buildings, a bunk shack for the roustabouts and coach drivers and guards, a barn that housed a blacksmith’s forge and spare coach and all replacement parts, and the outhouses labeled ‘Bucks' and ‘Does’ respectively, were built of cedar clapboards and had split-shingle roofs. Even the corral posts for the spare teams, and the logs for the stables, were notched and pegged together.

  This was no temporary arrangement: the company had invested a lot of time and money in this way-station and it should have been obvious to whoever was behind all the trouble that Wells Fargo had no intention of moving out for years to come.

  Inside, over coffee and sourdough biscuits, Nash asked about the latest troubles in this area.

  “To tell the truth, Clay,” Summers said with a faint edge of surprise in his voice, “there ain’t been any since the last stage hold-up, where that young schoolmarm was raped and beaten.”

  “There also hasn’t been a stage through here since then,” Mary added, a little grimly. She looked levelly at Nash as he frowned. “I guess passengers aren't keen to travel on stagecoaches with the reputation ours have got.”

  Nash’s frown deepened. “So they’ve stopped the stages?”

  “For the time being,” Summers said grimly. “But business will pick up again. Folks still have affairs to tend in Deadwood and the Wells Fargo stage is still the quickest way of gettin’ there.”

  Nash said, “Jed, although the stage run has virtually come to a halt right now, they still tried to stop me coming here.”

  “They’ve done that with every man we’ve hired,” Summers said.

  “Yeah, but what I’m gettin’ at is this: we figured they wanted to close down the line completely. Well, they sure haven’t done that, but putting the stages off for a spell is the next best thing to it. They’ve accomplished that much, the first time since the trouble began. But they still tried to stop me, as far as they know just an ordinary roustabout, from comin’ out here to work.”

  Both Summers and the girl looked puzzled.

  “Well, don’t you see? Maybe it’s not really the stage line itself that bothers ’em so much, as this relay station!”

  “I’m damned!” exclaimed Summers startled at the thought. He looked sharply at his daughter.

  Mary was studying Nash’s face carefully. “I think I see what you mean, Clay!” There was an edge of excitement to her voice. “We’ve all been thinking whoever is behind the trouble wants the line closed down. Well, one way of doing that is to make sure that we don’t get help with the work here at the station.”

  “And the next way could be an all-out raid,” Nash pointed out quietly. He glanced at Summers. “Have you got good maps of the area, Jed?”

  “The best,” Summers told him. “Military Survey, the ones Wells Fargo used when buildin’ here. But damned if I see what’s wrong with the location of this station. It’s in the best place for a stop-over ... ”

  “From our point of view, sure, but maybe not for someone else. We might be an embarrassment to ’em, sittin’ here, smack in the middle of Longknife.”

  “I don’t see why. But I’ll get them maps and we can study ’em. Maybe somethin’ll show up there.”

  He moved out of the room and Mary reached a hand across the table and squeezed Nash’s. She smiled as he looked at her. “It’s been a long time since Iron Ridge, Clay.”

  “Too long, Mary,” he told her quietly, covering her hand with one of his and looking into her fond eyes. “Been on the move all the time. Hume’s sent me all over the country on assignments but I never did get anywhere near Iron Ridge again. I’ve just come up from Colorado.”

  He felt her stiffen slightly. “Colorado? Were you anywhere near—Denver?”

  “Just outside, though I never got into Denver itself. Why? What’s wrong?”

  Mary flushed, lowering her gaze. She shrugged uncomfortably. “Nothing. I’m just being silly.”

  “Mary, come on now. We never hedged with one another. If we had somethin’ to say, we always said it.”

  She studied his face for a long moment then nodded, smiling again. “I was just thinking that ... well, the Garths went to live in Denver, Colorado.”

  “The Garths? You mean Walt. Oh, now I get it. Walt’s daughter! What was her name again? Prue? Sue?”

  “Susan ... as well you know, Clay Nash!” She leaned forward, kissed him lightly on the cheek. “But thank you for the pretence of not remembering her name. Did you see her?”

  He shook his head. “Not since she pulled out of Iron Ridge with her father after that hoedown when Jim Hume talked me into becoming an undercover agent. Fact is, Mary, I haven’t thought at all about Susan Garth. But I’ve often thought about you.”

  “You didn’t write.”

  He shrugged. “Started to a couple of times. But I was never much on letters and after writin’ up long reports I didn’t much feel like spending more time writin’ letters. All I wanted was to get away from the desk and back into some action.”

  Mary touched his bruised face gently. “You certainly had no trouble in finding action here. There’s been too much of it, Clay. Far too much killing and maiming.”

  “Yeah. I wish Jed hadn’t brought you with him, Mary.”

  “I wouldn’t let him go without me, you know that. But I must confess that I’m uneasy about this whole thing. It has a—an evil feel about it, Clay. It—frightens me at times.”

  His face was grim but he didn’t answer as Summers came back in with rolls of survey maps. Mary cleared the table and he spread the maps out, holding down the corners with his shotgun on one side, Mary’s Winchester on the other. Together, Summers and Nash studied the map of the terrain for almost an hour.

  Then Nash sat back, sighing, as he pulled tobacco sack and papers from a shirt pocket and began to twist up a cigarette. He shook his head slowly.

  “Beats me. Only thing that might be a possibility is a theory I mentioned to Jim Hume in Deadwood, just off the top of my head.” He snapped a vesta into flame on his thumbnail, lit his cigarette and leaned forward, tapping a shaded area in the mountains in back of the Longknife. “Here. ‘Gold-bearing’ it says on the map. I was wonderin’ if someone’s found a heap of gold in there and wants to keep it to himself. He could be afraid that the stage line will open up the country and there’ll be prospectors crawlin’ all over the place in there.”

  “Sounds possible,” Summers admitted slowly. “But it’d have to be one hell of a lot of gold to spark off all that killin’. A hell of a lot.”

  Nash looked at him soberly. “How about the Lost Indian Mine?”

  Summers glanced up sharply. Mary came in, exclaiming, “Lost Indian Mine! Isn’t that just legend, Clay?”

  “Who knows?” Nash countered. “Story goes that an Indian staggered into a wagon train encampment twenty years ago in this area, bleeding from all kinds of arrow wounds, his feet in shreds from walking over flint, and near dead. He managed to babble out something about a rich gold mine and a white man, his boss, still lost up in the hills near a big rock shaped like a bald-headed man. Some of the wagoners set out to find the white man after the Indian died and they spotted the rock, all right. In fact it’s here on this map, right there: marked in as Bald Man’s Peak. Slap in the middle of the shaded area that’s supposed to be gold bearing.”

  “Did they find the white man?” Mary asked, glancing up from the map.

  “They did. He was named McCluskey and he’d been scalped and staked out with wooden pegs through his hands and left for the buzzards and whatever else came along. He was dead, all right, but his holster didn’t contain his gun. It was crammed tight with ore samples of almost pure gold. His saddlebags nearby were also stuffed with the ore and so was the powder flask for his Hawken rifle and the barrel of the gun itself. He didn’t worry about protection: he had so much gold to brin
g out.”

  “What happened then?” the girl asked.

  “Well, the wagoners split the gold between ’em and went looking for the mine. Two of ’em were never seen again. One walked off a cliff in the dark and fell a thousand feet straight down. Another got torn apart by a mountain lion and the last man made it out. But he was babbling hysterically for days and the wagon train moved on, wondering where he’d gotten the samples of gold. When he came out of his fever and told his story, no one wanted to go back and look for the mine. They figured it had to be jinxed, with so many men losin’ their lives in such a short time while lookin’ for it.”

  “Can’t blame ’em for thinkin’ that!” opined Jed Summers. “There’s been dozens of searches made since then. Not all of ’em dogged by bad luck, but I must admit most of ’em seemed to’ve had more’n their share of it. Recollect the Buckland expedition, twelve years back. Seventeen men. Never seen nor heard of again. Some old rags of clothes were found about seven years back that were identified as belongin’ to old Major Buckland hisself and there was s’posed to be traces of gold-dust in the pocket of the shirt and the remains of an old leather belt pouch. But no one knows to this day what happened to ’em.”

  “All old mine stories have these mysterious disappearances in them, though, Pa,” Mary said. “It adds to the legend, and it’s very hard to sort out fact from fiction.”

  “Well, the Buckland disappearance was no fiction,” Summers said adamantly.

  “There have been other searches made and, so far as anyone knows, the mine has never been found,” Nash said. “You ask me, anyone who did find it wouldn’t tell about it, anyway, not if it’s as rich as the stories have it. They’d want to keep it to themselves. Maybe a bunch of ’em, like the Buckland expedition. They wouldn’t want to share even a mountain of gold with any outsider. Could be someone like that behind the trouble here.”

  Mary frowned. “I don’t suppose ... ” she started, then stopped abruptly and shook her head looking embarrassed. “No, of course not.”