Clay Nash 5

by Brett Waring

  Hume smiled grimly as he squeezed the old man’s shoulder and looked at Mary. “Thanks. Both of you. We’ll get going at sunup. The whole bunch of us. We’ll check out that valley and if Clay Nash and the Garths are in there, we’ll get them out no matter what it takes!”

  ~*~

  Nash gave up in the early hours of the morning. There was just no way out. The stonehouse prison was too solidly built and he had no tools or weapons at his disposal that he could use to help his escape.

  Walt and Susan Garth had dropped off to sleep hours earlier but he had continued to prowl over every inch of the walls and floor, feeling in the darkness for some widened crack, a section of crumbled cement joint, a loose flagstone, some sign of rust or movement in the bars at the windows. He had tried easing his fingers around the door frame, hoping there might be sufficient gap for him to try to get at the locks, but there was nothing: it was a tight, flush fit. There was no way out.

  He had fouled this one up properly. He had located the Garths and the valley of armed men, but a fat lot of good it was going to do him while he was held prisoner in here. There was only one chance now: when they came for him to take him before Mandrell to give the general his decision. It wasn’t likely that there would be much of an opportunity, but he would have to be alert for it. There was no other way they could get out.

  Weary, his fingers sore from running them over so many stone joints, Nash settled down in a corner and dozed, waking each time his head drooped. He figured, after a while, he might as well stretch out and try to snatch at least an hour’s sleep.

  He awoke to the blast of a bugle and the stirrings of an army camp at dawn. Reveille. He shivered and unwound his long body stiffly from its huddled position. Gray light filtered through the windows and he saw Susan and Garth stirring. They yawned and sat up slowly and the girl gave him a fleeting, nervous smile. He saw the tension tighten her face as she looked around her and the realization that she was still a prisoner pushed the last waves of sleep away.

  “Haven’t been able to figure out the magic words yet,” he said lightly, trying to take the seriousness from the situation.

  Susan stood up and came across to where Nash was now standing at the window, looking out at the activity on the parade ground.

  “It’s just like the real army,” Susan said quietly. “They drill all day long, practice at the firing range ... I believe Mandrell's Marauders have been reborn here, Clay, and that they will be a force to be reckoned with.”

  Nash nodded. “Sure seems about the size of it. Those men know their stuff.”

  He watched as the soldiers came tumbling out of their tents in full uniform, packs on shoulders, rifles at the slope. They lined up in precise formation for the parade and ‘General’ Orson Mandrell appeared with his aides, one of whom was the scar-faced ‘Colonel’ Newman, striding alongside with hard eyes raking over the lined-up men. It was barely light out there, and there was a lot of mist still hanging in the valley. The men must have been cold in only their shirts and pants, but that seemed to be their complete uniform and they were stiff and steady enough as Mandrell walked down the lines stopping occasionally to closely examine some item of equipment or to speak briefly with a rigid soldier.

  It was all very professional and military and Mandrell turned to Newman after the inspection and spoke briefly with him. Newman glanced towards the stonehouse and nodded and, as the general strode back towards his tent, called to a sergeant to dismiss the parade for breakfast. As the men scattered, Newman turned and walked slowly through the ground mists towards the stonehouse.

  Susan’s fingers tightened on Nash’s forearm. She looked anxiously into Nash’s sober face.

  “They’ll want your answer, Clay! What’ll you tell them? Oh, I know you’d never join Mandrell and his men, but are you going to try to bluff your way out?”

  “It’s the only way, isn’t it, Clay?” asked Walt Garth. “You’ll have to say you’ve agreed to throw in with him. It’s the only chance any of us have got.”

  Nash looked dubious but covered fast. “Well, Mandrell’s no fool. He’s not just going to take my word that I’m joinin’ him and then gonna give me free run of the valley. He’ll either keep me ‘confined to barracks’ or he’ll want some proof that I’ve really thrown in with him.”

  “Proof?” Garth asked, frowning. “What sort of proof?”

  Nash glanced towards Newman who was starting up the slope now, throwing a salute to the guard outside, then looked back at the Garths. “He might want me to kill one of you, just to make sure there’ll be no turning back.” Susan gasped and Garth looked stunned.

  “My God!” he breathed, then they heard low voices at the door, the keys being inserted in the locks, and turning. They stood in a group, looking towards the door as it slowly swung open and Newman stood aside to allow the guard to enter. He covered the trio with his rifle.

  “The general is ready for your decision, Nash,” Newman said coldly. “Let’s move.”

  Nash squeezed the white-faced Susan’s hand and nodded to Newman. He walked towards the door slowly, watched warily by the guard. Nash went out past Newman and stopped when ordered. He heard the door close and the keys turn in the locks. He spun swiftly but rose to his toes, freezing as the guard’s rifle barrel pushed into his midriff. Newman smiled as he put the keys away.

  “The general’s waiting, Nash,” he said, pulling out his Peacemaker from his holster and cocking it. He gestured across the parade ground and Nash turned and walked on stolidly ahead of the scar-faced man.

  Mandrell was at breakfast when Nash entered his tent and a second place had been laid at the table. The general greeted Nash warmly enough, offered him the spare seat.

  “Help yourself to food and coffee,” he said as Nash slowly sat.

  Newman stood by the door, Colt holstered, but his right hand resting lightly on the butt. Mandrell offered Nash the plate of eggs and bacon strips, the fried cornpone and fresh-brewed coffee. Nash decided he might as well eat while he could and began heaping food onto his platter.

  “This could be regarded as the condemned man’s last hearty meal,” he said wryly, cutting into the eggs and bacon.

  Mandrell laughed. “You’re a cool one, Nash. But, of course, it is really up to you whether this is your last meal or not, don’t you agree?”

  “Sure. If I join up with you, I guess I’ve got a lot of meals ahead of me. If I don’t ... then I suppose I go straight from here to the firing squad.”

  “More or less correct,” Mandrell agreed, eating daintily for such a big man. “But you’re no fool, Nash. You know I can win and I suspect you’re a man who likes to be on the winning side.”

  “Not at any price, General. I’ve got to come to terms with myself.”

  “Well said. A man of integrity. I like you, Nash. I shall be very disappointed if you have elected to die rather than join me.”

  There was a query in his words and the direct look demanded an answer right now.

  Nash met and held his stare. “I’ve no hankerin’ to die yet a while, General ... ”

  “Then the answer is simple.”

  “Not so simple. I don’t like what you’re doin’. It’s no better than the revolutions they have down in Mexico: it’s insurrection, anarchy, whatever term you like to give it. But it always ends the same way: with a dictator at the head, runnin’ things his way. And that’s not the way a democracy works.”

  “This democracy doesn’t appear to be working at all,” Mandrell snapped, rising a little to Nash’s words. “This Congress is too wishy-washy, afraid of offending the people! We need harsher laws and we need a tough force to implement them. That way, this country will be great and ... ” He broke off abruptly and gave Nash a crooked smile. “I see. You’re not really interested in my motives. You’re trying delaying tactics. Why, Nash? Why? You have no hope of rescue. I have word from my man on the mountain behind the relay station that preparations are being made to close it down.”

&nb
sp; “That’s right. Wells Fargo are givin’ in to your demands. So when are you gonna release the Garths?”

  Mandrell sighed. “You disappoint me, Nash! Some people might consider that a noble streak in you, but I regard it as downright foolish. Why concern yourself with the Garths? You should be thinking of yourself. Now, I have finished beating about the bush. I want a straight answer from you. Are you with me or against me? It can’t be any other way, no middle-of-the-road.”

  “I’ll answer you when you answer me about the Garths. What d’you aim to do with ’em? Wells Fargo are closing down and that’s what you wanted. They’re sticking to your deadline.”

  Mandrell drank his coffee first and poured another cup before replying. “Obviously, I cannot turn them loose before I am ready to make my move. You have to see that.”

  “That wasn’t the deal!”

  “You forget where you are, Nash. I make the terms. You must see I have to keep them here. That’s your answer. Now, I want mine from you. Are—you—going—to—join— me?”

  Nash toyed with his fork, aware that Newman had tensed behind him. He smiled faintly: he hadn’t realized he had a weapon in his hand in the shape of the fork. But he set it down and sat back in his chair, looking directly at Mandrell.

  “I could say ‘yes’, General, but you wouldn’t believe me. And you’d be right. We’d both know I was lyin’, because I don’t believe in what you’re doin’ and first chance I got, I’d put a bullet in your back.”

  Newman was very tense now and Mandrell checked with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He stared coldly at Nash, then smiled faintly. “Of course ... honesty was what I expected from you. Take him out and make arrangements for a firing squad in one hour’s time, Colonel.”

  Mandrell lifted the cup the rest of the way and drank. Nash snatched up the fork and lunged across the table at the man, stabbing at his exposed neck, aiming for the jugular vein. But Newman’s gun barrel cracked down behind his ear and slammed him sprawling across the table. The colonel grabbed his trousers belt and heaved him back and flung him roughly to the ground. Nash groaned as he rolled about, half-conscious. Mandrell continued his drink, drained the cup and set it down again. He didn’t even glance at Nash as he stood and walked from the tent.

  Newman kicked Nash in the side, rolling the man onto his knees. “On your feet, scum!” he snarled, twisted the fingers of his free hand in Nash’s hair from behind and heaved mightily.

  Nash staggered upright, grimacing in pain, seeing the guard outside the tent had stepped inside now and was menacing him with his rifle. Newman slammed him roughly across the kidneys and sent him stumbling towards the tent door.

  “He just tried to kill the general!” Newman said thickly.

  As Nash staggered past the guard, the man raised his rifle and smashed the butt into the middle of Nash’s back. The force of the blow propelled him out into the parade ground and he fell to hands and knees. The guard kicked him in the side and then Newman was standing over him, his Colt in his hand, cocked, and the muzzle pointing at Nash’s head.

  “It would please me considerably to put a bullet in you right now, Nash!” the colonel growled, gritting his teeth. “Now you get up and you march straight back to that stonehouse jail and you don’t even look like you’re gonna give me any trouble or I’ll blow your left knee-cap clear off, you savvy? You’re gonna die anyway, but I can make it slow or I can make it easy, so you figure it for yourself.”

  He kicked Nash again and the Wells Fargo man grunted, hugged his bruised ribs and staggered upright. Newman shoved his shoulder and sent him staggering across the parade ground towards the stonehouse prison.

  Nash hugged his ribs as he moved along, head ringing. One more foot, he told himself bitterly, a lousy twelve inches, that was all he had needed to plunge those fork tines into Mandrell’s jugular and it would have been all over! But Newman had steel-spring reactions and he had foiled his last-ditch attempt to finish Mandrell. Now he had one hour left to live and it would likely be the most frustrating and useless hour of his life. For what in hell could he accomplish in that time, once he was back in the stonehouse? Susan would weep over him; Walt Garth would mutter platitudes; Nash himself knew there was nothing he could do to break out. He would just have to wait those long minutes until the firing squad came for him and Newman stood him against a wall or tied him to a post in the parade ground and gave the final order, the last word he would hear on this earth ... ‘Fire!’

  They reached the stonehouse and the guard swung his rifle down and covered Nash as Newman took out his keys and inserted them in the door locks, turned them simultaneously, and pushed the door open. Susan and Walt Garth stood against the far wall of the gloomy cell, looking desperately at Nash.

  Newman nodded to the guard and the man prodded Nash in the back with his rifle muzzle. He was a mite slow in moving and the guard impatiently swung the butt into his kidneys and knocked him sprawling into the middle of the floor. Nash groaned and, through the red haze of pain he saw Susan and her father coming towards him to help him up. Then they froze as there was another thud and they looked past him to the door, their faces shocked. Holding one hand against his bruised back, Nash twisted to see what was wrong and he felt the shock hit his own features and his jaw sagged.

  Colonel Newman was standing over the prone figure of the unconscious guard, holding his Colt by the barrel. He had obviously used the butt on the guard. Nash blinked up at the man as Newman stepped inside and pushed the door closed, careful not to let the lock tongues slip into their sockets.

  “We’ve got to hurry,” Newman said swiftly. “We’ve only got an hour to get you away from here.”

  The three stared at him blankly.

  Ten – The Echoing Hills

  The early morning mists were thick and white around the base of the mountain peak as Jim Hume made his way up the slope on foot. He had left his mount in the thick timber at the last arroyo and come on on foot, gun in hand.

  The mists had made his climb over the rocks hazardous, but they had hidden his approach from the sentry stationed on the ledge. Hume had slipped away from the station building before dawn, wanting to do this chore himself. He had had enough of inactivity, of desk work, sending other men into danger. And he wasn’t about to pass up this chance to get some action.

  The lieutenant had protested, arguing that he had men who were properly trained in the function of scouts and they could slide through grass with no more noise or disturbance than a snake. He claimed they were the logical choice to go out and silence the watcher on the ledge, but Hume had had the final say and here he was, making his way precariously up the mountain through the dampness and chill of the clammy mist.

  They had watched that man last evening and seen him climb higher up the slope and disappear over the crest of a ridge. He had been gone for a half-hour before he had come riding back over the ridge, making no attempt to conceal himself. Hume figured the man had ridden to some vantage point to send a signal, visually, about what was happening at the relay station. As this was before the lieutenant had arrived with the rest of the troop, all the man could have reported was that there had been preparations to move out and he had no doubt that this was what the man’s boss wanted to know. He couldn’t yet know about the arrival of the troop as they had come in after dark. And Hume didn’t aim for the man to find out about their presence and pass the information along.

  He wanted those men in the hills and following the crude map drawn by the old sourdough miner soon after full daylight, and he wanted them in there without anyone’s knowledge. With some luck, they would find the men they wanted, and Nash and the Garths, too, in this hidden valley Donner had spoken of. To be on the safe side, during the night, a soldier had been dispatched to Deadwood with a message to send down as many troops as could be spared. Hume aimed to clean out these hills once and for all now that he had started ...

  Jim Hume paused, panting, trying to keep his breathing quiet, resting against a dam
p boulder, acknowledging that he wasn’t as fit as he used to be; or as he should have been to tackle a chore like this. But he was here now and there was no turning back and he had to get that lookout silently: he didn’t want any gunshots echoing through the hills and warning any men stationed nearby .

  He tilted his head back and looked up at the steep slope above. The mists were thinning: he couldn’t waste any more time. He was directly below the ledge now and the man must’ve already stirred up his campfire, for Hume could smell coffee and wood smoke. Gulping down a deep breath, he grabbed some dripping rocks, tested them for solidity, and then put his weight on them, feeling with his boot for purchase and heaving himself up another few feet. He used knees and boot toes and fingernails, snatching at jutting brush, panting and gasping, inching higher, hands slipping on the damp holds he managed to find. Once he hung dangling in space as the rock he was standing on with one foot gave way and rolled on down the slope, bouncing and clattering. He was suspended from a small bush and he kicked wildly for a few moments before managing to swing his legs up and finding purchase for them on a jutting flat rock. He pulled himself in close against the slope, heart pounding, ears ringing, looking up, knowing the man up there must have heard the falling rock.

  Would he think it was just something that had worked loose by itself as sometimes happened, or knocked by some animal? Or would he be alerted, expecting to see Hume’s head and shoulders appear over his ledge, waiting with a gun to fire inches from his face and blow him into eternity?