Clay Nash 18

by Brett Waring

  “Red Flower, get that stew heatin’. Here she comes! You can bet old Sol Guinn’ll be ready to eat a horse. And put on the big coffee pot.”

  His Cheyenne wife voiced acknowledgment from the house and the two roustabouts came out of the shed, one holding a Concord axle, the other smeared with thick hub grease, a battered can in his hand. They stared at the dust cloud.

  “Weavin’ about some, ain’t he, boss?” one roustabout said.

  “Ain’t like old Sol Guinn,” said the other. “He usually comes in straight as an arrow.”

  Chuck Malloy frowned as he climbed to the top of the corral fence and strained to see against the sun. “By hell, you’re right! Somethin’s wrong! Better grab a couple of rifles and tell the wife to break out the medicine box. Could be we’ve got ourselves some trouble.”

  The roustabouts ran for their rifles and Chuck took down his gunrig from where it hung on a fence post. He buckled it on,

  watching the approaching stage. He could see now that there were only five horses in the team. One man was on top, too slim to be Guinn. Chuck Malloy’s jaw knotted as he pulled out his Colt and checked the loads.

  By then the Concord was charging across the flats. The team seemed to gather speed instead of slowing. He could see the slim driver pulling back on the reins, but he was obviously inexperienced and dropped a couple of straps. They flew to the side, flapping and flaying wildly as the driver fought vainly for control.

  “Watch out!” the driver yelled.

  Chuck Malloy turned and ran as the stage came thundering into the yard. The driver pulled desperately on the reins and managed to swing the horses at the last second, but it was too late for the coach. It slewed crazily, the brake-locked rear wheels churning through the dust and sending dirt clods flying. Then the side of the coach smashed into the corral fence and poles exploded from their notches. The spare horses in the corral ran to the far side, some slamming against the rails.

  The coach smashed through the corral rails and the driver jumped for his life as it tilted past the point of balance and crashed onto its side, bringing down the team. The driver rolled over the ground.

  Chuck Malloy drew his six-gun, ducked between a section of the fence still standing and sent off three shots, driving back the plunging spare horses. Then he grabbed the driver’s arm and dragged him clear of the corrals.

  “The passengers!” Malloy shouted to the roustabouts. “Get the passengers!”

  At that moment one of the dazed passengers opened the door of the stage and climbed out, bleeding from a cut over his eye. The roustabouts ran to help him. A woman screamed from the coach.

  There was confusion for a while, but finally all the dazed and bleeding passengers were seated in the dining room. The body of Sol Guinn lay covered with a blanket on the porch. Red Flower knelt before the chair where the pale-faced Larry Holbrook sat and gently cleaned the bullet wound across his chest. The bullet had burned through flesh, missing his arm as it exited. He looked up at Chuck Malloy now as the agent took notes while he spoke: “When I come to, I found that the road agents had killed poor Sol, robbed the passengers and downed one of the team. There were four of ’em. I can’t remember much, but that storekeeper from Topeka says he got a good look at a couple of ’em, includin’ the hombre pretendin’ to be a woman beside the buckboard.”

  “You did damn well to bring the stage in,” Malloy said admiringly.

  Larry grimaced as the Indian woman probed torn flesh and flicked out bits of cloth and dirt.

  “I ain’t finished yet, Malloy. Listen. Can you take care of the passengers, rig another team and send one of your men along as driver to Topeka or wire for them to send out a man?”

  Malloy frowned. “Yeah, I can send a man ... but why?”

  “I’m goin’ after them bandits,” Larry said.

  Malloy looked startled. The Cheyenne woman shook her head. “Fool man,” she said. “You die!”

  “You’re loco, kid!” Malloy growled. “They’re long gone by now. You won’t find hide nor hair of ’em.”

  “I’ll find them if it takes me six months,” Larry said grimly.

  “You’re bein’ stupid kid.”

  Larry glared at Malloy, then he winced as the Indian woman smeared ointment on the bullet wound. Moments later he relaxed.

  “That feels mighty good, Mrs. Malloy,” he said. “Took all the burnin’ away.”

  “Need more,” she said. “Two time.”

  “What?”

  “She’s sayin’ them dressin’s’ll have to be changed twice a day,” Malloy explained. “Which means you’ve got to stay here.”

  “I’m goin’ after them outlaws,” Larry said adamantly. “They made a fool of me. And it ain’t the first time. Jubal Ricks and his crew did the same thing only a few days ago. I swore to Jim Hume then that if he’d gimme another chance at ridin’ shotgun I wouldn’t let any express box in my charge be robbed. And what happens? I get shot off the stage and I’m out like a light while the express box and passengers are bein’ robbed and Sol Guinn is gunned down. And all I got to show for it is a bump on the head and a strip of hide burned off by a bullet.”

  He shook his head savagely and stood up, grasping the back of the chair to steady himself. “Nope. I just can’t let this ride, Malloy. I can’t let Clay Nash or someone like him go after those hombres. I gotta take care of ’em myself. I gotta! Can’t you see that?”

  “He is right,” the Cheyenne woman said to Malloy. “He must go.”

  Malloy nodded. “I can see why you feel like you do, kid. But you have to realize that you did a lot bringing the stage in like you did.”

  Larry waved this aside impatiently. “You don’t savvy what I’m sayin’! Those outlaws made me look foolish and I ain’t gonna stand still for it. Besides, they gunned down Sol Guinn and he was my amigo.”

  Malloy sighed. “Well, let’s see how you feel in the mornin’ after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Mornin’, hell!” growled Larry. “I’m gonna have somethin’ to eat and then I’m high-tailin’ it for the hills.”

  Malloy stared at him incredulously. “You’re loco!”

  “Mebbe. But no one better try to stop me!”

  The Big Plains stretched far below the butte where Clay Nash reined down. Behind him Jubal Ricks was roped to the saddlehorn of his horse. It was early morning and the heat haze was already forming over the flatland.

  Nash looked into the distance, consulting the map in his head. Swinging north-west, he would come to the Big Plains relay station run by Chuck Malloy, a distance of about thirty miles. To the south was the second relay station, set against the rise of the foothills. It was run by two tough, leather-faced sisters, both widows whose husbands had been killed by Indians while stringing Western Union telegraph wire across the Big Plains. Instead of going back to civilization as most women would have done, they had built the way-station buildings, educated their six children out of books and had fought off the occasional Indian attack, not to mention the amorous advances of lonely drifters.

  The station, known by Wells Fargo as The Convent because of the sisters’ habit of making passengers gather for prayer before each stage pulled out, was much closer than Malloy’s place. Searching his memory, Nash recalled a root cellar where he could keep Ricks overnight. He could catch the southbound stage there and get Ricks into jail in Topeka.

  The Wells Fargo man decided on this course of action. He was about to speak to the outlaw when Ricks jammed his heels into his mount’s flanks and jumped it at Nash’s horse.

  Nash reacted instinctively, jerking the reins sharply to the left away from the edge of the butte and hauling his horse around by brute force. Even so the chest of the outlaw’s horse hit the rump of Nash’s mount. It scrabbled wildly, a hoof breaking chunks of sandstone and earth from the edge of the butte. Nash fought the reins and the animal’s jerking head, throwing his weight away from the drop. Jubal Ricks, his teeth bared in hatred, used his knees to guide his moun
t, kicking savagely at its flanks. But Nash had had the foresight to remove the outlaw’s spurs and his heels did little to force the animal forward now that it was within a yard or so of the edge. It veered away and Nash spurred his mount away to a safe distance, spun it around, rode in and leaned down to snatch the lead rope of the outlaw’s horse. He hauled both animals back from the edge. Then, panting, his heart hammering wildly, he looked at Ricks’ brutish face. The outlaw sneered.

  Nash backhanded Ricks across the mouth and experienced satisfaction as he felt the outlaw’s thick lips ram against his teeth.

  “One thing, Ricks,” Nash said tightly. “Hume wants you brought in, but he doesn’t care if it’s dead or alive. Remember that.”

  Ricks spat blood and swore at the Wells Fargo man. “Your day’ll come, Nash. I owe you plenty!”

  Nash said nothing as he jerked on the lead rope and set Ricks’ horse into position behind his own mount. Then he rode down the steep trail from the butte and into the hazy heat of the Big Plains.

  Nash reached The Convent just after noon. The two sisters met him, rifles at the ready. The eldest, Hattie, called “Mad Hattie” by some, held an old single-shot Remington rolling-block buffalo rifle in seventy caliber. A ball from the Remington would blow a hole in a man large enough to drive a large pole through. The younger one, in her late forties but looking much younger, held an old Henry repeater in .44 rimfire caliber. How had they beaten off Indian attacks with such outdated weapons? Nash wondered. But he did know they were dead shots and had the guts to use their guns.

  “Howdy, Clay,” called Millie, the younger sister, waving the Henry. “We were told to look out for you. I guess that hombre with you must be the notorious Jubal Ricks.”

  “That’s him, Millie,” Nash said, dismounting stiffly by the corral and nodding a hello to Hattie. “Is that some of your corn dodgers I smell bakin’, Hattie?”

  “Your nose ain’t too clogged with dust or alkali if you can tell that, I reckon,” Hattie said, poker-faced. She never smiled, which made it hard to know when she was joshing. She ran her clear blue eyes over big Jubal Ricks as Nash helped the outlaw down from the saddle. “He don’t look so mean to me, more like a dirty drifter with an empty belly than the killer and notorious outlaw you hear all the stories about.”

  Ricks scowled and spat at Hattie’s feet. “I’ll show you what I am if I ever get these manacles off!”

  He staggered back as Hattie stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. His ears rang from the unexpected blow.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded.

  “You don’t spit on my station, you scum!” Hattie told him. “You wipe your feet before you come into the house and you wash up good before you sit down to my dinner table.” She grabbed him by the ear and twisted, wrinkling her nose. “You’ll be lucky if you eat by this time tomorrow! I figure it’ll take you that long to get all that dirt cleaned from behind your ears!”

  “I’ve been livin’ in the hills for three months,” Ricks said.

  “No wonder you smell like a skunk. Millie, set some water heatin’ and get out the lye soap. We’re gonna have to scrub till sundown to get this varmint even halfway clean.”

  Millie smiled and nodded as she moved towards the station building. Ricks looked wildly at Nash.

  “You ain’t gonna let these two women get their claws on me, are you?”

  “Well, you do need a wash, Ricks, and I sure don’t aim to do it for you. The sisters’ll clean you up real good.”

  “You can’t let ’em do it!”Jubal Ricks protested.

  Nash grinned at the idea of this killer who’d faced Wells Fargo shotgun guards and posse guns feeling embarrassed about having a pair of women scrubbing him clean in a tub of hot suds.

  “Clay!”

  Nash jerked his head around sharply at Millie’s call from the porch. She held a piece of paper in her hands and motioned for him to go to her. Hattie held the Remington on the surly Ricks as the Wells Fargo man stepped onto the porch and looked at Millie.

  “What’s up?”

  “Message just came from Malloy’s place. Apparently he got it from Jim Hume in Topeka. Seems the Atcheson-Topeka stage was held up and robbed, Sol Guinn was shot to death but Larry Holbrook got the stage and passengers to Malloy’s even though he was wounded. Now he’s gone off after the bandits. Four of ’em.” She handed him the paper. “Hume’s put names to ’em from their descriptions.”

  Nash muttered a curse under his breath as he read aloud: “Dan Penny’s bunch—Hawkins, Calico Billy Boone, and Stede Hackett. As cold-blooded a wolf pack as you’d come across in a coon’s age!” He smacked his right fist against the palm of his left hand. “And that damn young fool Larry’s gone trailin’ ’em alone! Wounded! Hell!”

  “Hume wants you to go after him,” Millie said. “You’ll have to leave Ricks here.”

  Nash frowned, wishing he had taken the longer trail to Malloy’s station, where there was a storehouse he could have locked Ricks in.

  “You still got that root cellar I can use, Millie?”

  “That’s all we have, Clay. But it’ll be all right. Once the bar’s across the trapdoor he won’t be goin’ nowhere. Besides, I’ll chain one of the dogs to the doors and let the others run loose. Don’t worry none, Clay. You’ll find Jubal Ricks right where you left him when you get back.”

  But Nash was frowning as he turned back to look down into the yard where Ricks sat in the dirt, swearing softly while Hattie pulled the stinking, sweat-stiff shirt from his back.

  Six – Guns in the Hills

  The four outlaws couldn’t believe they had struck it so rich.

  Huddled in the low-roofed cave at the end of one of the many snaking draws in the foothills, they stared at the glittering piles of gold and silver coin and the stack of paper currency, all spread out on a worn slicker beside the fire.

  Dan Penny, pushing fifty, illiterate, with only four teeth in his mouth and a patch over his sightless left eye, casually kicked over the stacked gold coins and laughed.

  “Nice sound, ain’t it, fellers?”

  “How much have you toted up, Calico?” asked Stede Hackett as the rawboned outlaw with the prominent Adam’s apple laboriously wrote figures in a small notebook, licking his stub of pencil.

  Hawkins, the silent, wolf-faced gunman of the pack, leaned a little closer, his dark eyes asking the same question.

  Boone looked up, his jaw hanging loosely. “Well, I’ll be dogged! Fellers, we’re rich! You know how much we got there?”

  “That’s what the hell we’re tryin’ to find out!” growled Dan Penny. “Come on, Calico!”

  “Well, the gold adds up to ten thousand even. Yeah, that’s right, ten grand, just in gold! Then we’ve got two thousand, five hundred in silver and five thousand in paper money. Grand total of seventeen thousand, five hundred bucks!”

  All the outlaws except Hawkins let out wild whoops that echoed from the walls of the small cave. When they finished slapping each other on the back and laughing, Penny broke out a stone jug of whisky. Each had a drink, then Hawkins said:

  “We ain’t counted the passengers’ stuff.”

  They all stared at Penny. The outlaw leader flushed a little.

  “Guess I must’ve forgot,” he said, going to his saddlebags and spilling out the jewelry and wallets they had taken from the stage passengers.

  Calico Billy added up the money and made a quick estimate of the value of the jewelry. “I reckon we’ve got another thousand at least,” he said.

  “Put out my share,” Hawkins said.

  The others looked at him sharply. Dan Penny frowned.

  “What’s the hurry, Hawk?”

  “I’m quittin’.”

  “Hell, what for?” demanded Calico Billy. “There’ll be other stages comin’ through with full express boxes.”

  Hawkins shook his head. “I’m goin’ back to Laredo. Got me a senorita there I hanker to see.”

  St
ede Hackett arched his eyebrows. “Didn’t know you were a ladies’ man, Hawk.”

  The killer looked at him silently. Calico Billy glanced at Dan Penny who shrugged.

  “It’s Hawk’s decision. Give him his share. But we’re sorry to see you go, man.”

  Hawkins watched Calico Billy count out coins and paper money for a spell before answering. “Gonna be mighty hot around here after killin’ that guard and driver. Wells Fargo don’t like that kind of thing. I got enough dodgers out on me already. It’s time I holed-up near the Rio where I can slip across to Mexico if I have to. You fellers’d be wise to do the same.”

  It was the longest speech any of the gang had ever heard Hawkins make and they respected his words, knowing he must have thought the situation out carefully before opening his mouth, for that was Hawkins’ way.

  Dan Penny scratched his bearded jaw. “Might make sense, Hawk,” he said. “But now that I got me a contact with that Wells Fargo shippin’ clerk, I don’t wanna let go.”

  Hawkins shrugged as he pulled his share towards him and began stuffing it into his saddlebags. “I guess it’s adios.”

  He walked out to where the horses were tethered. The others, sitting there, heard him saddle up, mount and ride into the night.

  They had been together for nearly a year, sharing tobacco and beans and trading lead with posses, but that was all the farewell there was, a casual, “Adios.”

  For men of their calling, it was enough.

  Larry Holbrook wished he had listened more closely to the Cheyenne woman back at Malloy’s on the Big Plains. His wound was giving him hell and his right arm was stiffening. There was a swelling in his armpit and he felt feverish.

  The herbs she had bound into place had long since lost their potency and were now caked hard with the discharge from the wound. He sucked in his breath as he laboriously peeled the bandages away and revealed the purplish lips of the wound that was a dark poisonous color.