by Brett Waring
“What?”
Nash pointed and Haines eased his horse forward a few paces, looking down at the mangled body of a snake, a diamondback, judging by the blood-spattered patterns on its skin.
“Been done with a stick, looks like,” Haines said quietly. “Look at the ground around it, all stirred up ... ”
“Brush is broken down here, too,” Nash pointed out. “That snake ain’t been dead too long or he’d be stinkin’. I wouldn’t be surprised if Christian’s horse was bitten.”
Haines looked up sharply and then back at the churned-up ground. He nodded slowly. That sign could well have been made by a prancing, frightened horse, stomping desperately at the attacking snake, or dancing away from it. The outlaw couldn’t risk a gunshot with pursuit somewhere behind, so he had likely leapt from the saddle, grabbed up a stick and battered the snake to death.
“Tracks look like he rode on,” Nash said, “and yeah ... See? His hoss is limpin’. Left foreleg, I reckon. Could be we’ll find a dead horse a little farther along.”
“Then we’ve got him if he’s on foot.”
Nash shook his head slowly, wishing his eyes didn’t keep blurring from dizziness. “Wouldn’t bet on it. He could lead us an even longer chase on foot through those canyons.”
“Mebbe,” Haines said. “Let’s push on.”
They found the dead horse, its left foreleg swollen and gashed in several places where Christian had tried to bleed out the poison. But the reptile had obviously struck at least a half-dozen times and the poison must have pumped fast through the animal. Christian’s saddle was still on the carcass but his canteen and rifle and saddlebags were gone.
Nash looked around at the towering, sun-blasted rocks. “He could be anywhere in there. We’ll fill our canteens first and then start looking.”
They rode through the brush and up and over a lava ridge before they reached the dark green brush and the sentinel tree where, as Nash had predicted, they found a spring. The water was clear and cold. Nash used his hunting knife to dig out a channel in the moist turf and then cut a small curving strip of bark from the tree to use as a trough. He ran the bark end into the mouth of the canteen and in ten minutes it was overflowing. Haines handed him his canteen and Nash rigged the trough again. He let it pour into the vessel and moved to his mount to hang his canteen from the pommel.
A rifle shot blasted from up on a canyon wall and the canteen jerked as the bullet punched two holes in it, water exploding outwards in a silver fan, the bullet-exit leaving a hole half the size of Nash’s fist.
His horse jumped and he instinctively slapped it to make it run as he threw himself backwards into the brush. The rifle whiplashed again, four times, raking the brush with deadly fire. Branches snapped around him and leaves flew. Haines dropped flat as a bullet laid a gray streak of lead across the rock by the spring and then screamed off in a savage ricochet.
Nash squirmed around and rolled behind the tree, fighting his way through the thick brush, pushing branches aside. His movements were plain to the rifleman on the canyon and lead punched into the brush all around him, tore a fist-sized chunk of bark out of the tree in front of his face.
He whipped out his six-gun as Haines rolled behind the rock beside the spring, his own six-gun in his hand, knowing his shotgun was useless at that range.
“Son of a bitch waited for us!” he breathed, eyes raking the canyon wall above for some sign of the bushwhacker’s position. “He knew we’d fill our canteens, so he just waited!”
“He shot out the canteen with his first shot. He figures he can get away from us, I reckon, either leave us on foot like he is or without any means of carryin’ water. He don’t want a full shoot-out.”
“The horses!” Haines exclaimed. “Hell almighty! He’ll pick off the mounts!”
And Christian was shooting at the horses. Lead buzzed off the saddle on Haines’ mount and the horse jerked and pranced, wild-eyed, running into the thicket. Nash’s mount was already in thick brush and Christian made it his next target, planting his shots all around the frightened animal as it plunged on through the brush.
Nash swore. “He mightn’t be hittin’ ’em, but he’s doin’ the next best thing. He’s drivin’ ’em off.”
“I see him!” Haines said suddenly, pointing. “Looks like a cave mouth. Got it? Straight above that layer of red and white strata to your left!”
“Got it,” Nash said, watching the cloud of gray powder smoke rising slowly up the canyon wall in the air currents. He stared closely at the black half-circle where the smoke seemed to have its origins. “Yeah ... I think you’re right. That could be a cave.”
The shooting stopped as he spoke and he heard the plunging of the horses continue for a spell and then stop, too. He knew the animals had been driven off far enough so that if he or Haines went after them, Christian could pick them off from his vantage point.
“D’you reckon we’re pinned down here?” Haines asked, glancing around, laying his six-gun’s barrel across his forearm and sighting carefully at the cave mouth.
“Right now we are,” Nash replied. “But this brush is pretty thick. One of us could keep him busy while the other works his way underneath it, away from the spring. Looks like there’s been a landslide at some time and there’s plenty of cover, if I can reach those rocks.”
“If one of us can reach ’em,” Haines corrected, squeezing off a shot and hearing his lead ricochet from the cave mouth. “That was just to let him know we got him pinpointed. Yeah, Clay. We toss for it.”
Nash shook his head. “You went over the trail rise first and got your horse shot from under you. This one’s mine.”
He didn’t wait for Haines to reply but dropped onto his belly and began working his way beneath the thick brush, body flat to the ground.
“Wait up, Clay!” protested Haines.
“You got his range. Make him keep his head down.”
Dakota swore, ducked as lead from the cave whined over his head, and then snapped off a shot fast, saw it spurt dust from the rock, and fired three more times, spacing the shots to give Nash time to make as much progress as possible. Then Haines began reloading and when the six-gun was ready, he laid it aside and unclipped his shotgun from the swivel. He figured to have it on hand just in case.
Nash felt the wound in his side start bleeding again and he sucked down a sharp breath at the biting tear of flesh as the squirming movement twisted the wound open. The ground was rough against his body and he froze when there was a slithering movement ahead of him and sweat broke out in cold beads on his face as he ran a tongue across his lips and thumbed back the hammer of his Peacemaker. But he didn’t see whatever it was and he just hoped he didn’t come face to face with a rattler or a cottonmouth in here. He would be dead if he did for there was no room to dodge.
The brush above him was thick and gave a cool screen but he was afraid that his belt would catch on the lowest branches and shake it. If it did, Christian’s sharp eyes would spot it and he would soon figure what was going on. He would rake the brush with a withering fire and some of his bullets would be bound to find Nash.
He gritted his teeth and kept crawling forward, nose against the ground, resisting the impulse to sneeze as the dust rose and dead leaves crushed under his hands and body. Then he noticed that there was more and more dappled sunlight showing on the ground ahead and there were sharp stones that gradually gave way to fist-sized rocks and the brush thinned and he felt again the heat of the sun burning on the backs of his hands.
Nash raised his smarting eyes, squinting ahead and saw the steep slope of the canyon wall. He had made it! Now, he lay still and listened. Those two last shots had come from behind and below. Haines’ six-gun. The answering shots were the unmistakable whiplash of a rifle, the heavy, snapping-plank sound telling him it was a thirty-thirty, likely the same one used back at the cabin. Seven shots then, and a reloading would be necessary.
The Chinese girl had had a rifle with her, the .44 caliber car
bine they had also heard at the cabin. It would be tolerably safe then to count on Christian having to reload after seven shots. But how many had he gotten off so far? Nash hadn’t been counting as he had crawled along and the pause right now might only mean that he was saving ammunition and not that he was reloading the tubular magazine.
Then there was a volley of four fast shots from up above as Christian no doubt raked the brush where Haines was crouched. It was followed swiftly by two six-gun shots, a pause, and then the double blast of Haines’ shotgun. At first Nash figured Haines was wasting ammunition, then he realized what the agent was about: he was using two different guns, hoping that Christian would figure they were both still pinned down there by the spring.
Nash crouched, grinning coldly, gun in hand, waiting. Two more rifle shots from the cave and then—nothing. Christian had to be reloading now and there was no way of telling just how fast he could do it. He wouldn’t be slow, that was for sure, and Nash knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He burst up through the screening brush and made a wild run for the first of the tumbled rocks, boots pounding and slipping up and across the uneven slope. He fell twice but reached the rock without drawing any fire, though he heard Haines’ six-gun bark, followed swiftly by the thunder of one barrel of the sawn-off. Nash couldn’t afford to stop here. He had to try for the next one upslope and, getting his breathing under control, he made a run for the next rock.
His wounds slowed him down and he slipped to hands and knees in the rubble and almost made the second rock when Christian spotted him and sent two shots at him. They were close and pieces of flying stone stung his face as he hurled himself at the rock’s shelter. He hit with a jolt that jarred the breath from him and a third bullet whined away downslope. Then Haines’ six-gun opened up and Nash knew he was doing his best to make Christian keep his head down. Panting, face grimacing with pain, Nash lay sprawled there and glanced back down towards the brush and the spring. Haines waved from beside the tree with his smoking six-gun, indicating that Nash should continue on up the slope, that he was keeping Christian busy.
Clay Nash figured he couldn’t afford to take time to think about it. Doubled over, holding his side, he made his dash for the next rock as Haines opened up from below. The rifle above got off two snap-shots at him but they missed and he reached the rock. He was less than ten feet below the rim of the cave’s entrance now and he gulped to try and control his breathing. Christian would be set up inside, waiting for him to appear silhouetted against the hot blaze of the sky, and his rifle would blast him into eternity.
The outlaw’s rifle cracked once above him and he wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the hammer drop a second time on an empty chamber ... or maybe it was only a misfire. No! There it was again, the cold click of steel against steel.
Clay thrust up, leapt around his rock and lunged for the rim of the cave mouth. He went in low-down, barely above the rim level, Peacemaker thrust out ahead and triggering. He didn’t care if he hit anything or not, he wanted plenty of noise and gunfire to distract Christian and he had the impression of a gun blazing back at him from the depths of the cave and then he was rolling across the smooth floor, spinning onto his belly and twisting with a muscle-wrenching movement that put him facing the dim outline of Clint Christian, elbows braced against the rock, as the outlaw triggered again.
The Peacemaker bucked in Nash’s hand and Christian spun like a top as lead clipped him. He went down to one knee and, teeth bared, threw down on Nash again. The Wells Fargo man fired a split-second before the outlaw and through the deafening thunder of the shots there came a high-pitched scream of agony and Christian fell, dropping his Colt, writhing as he clawed at his right leg. The scream went on and on and Nash got to his feet, moved in, kicking Christian’s gun well clear, and stood looking down at the man.
He had shot the man’s right kneecap clear off. There was no more fight left in Clint Christian, and Nash walked wearily to the cave mouth and yelled for Haines to come on up. At last, they had their man.
Ten – One Last Try
Chief of Detectives James Hume looked pleased with himself as he walked out of the Yuma courthouse and came down the stone steps through the chattering crowds of townsfolk to where Clay Nash stood talking with Maggie Moran, her mother, and Dakota Haines. The detective chief was wearing a claw hammer coat and string tie and looked hot and uncomfortable.
“Well, that’s that. The end of Clint Christian. He’ll be hanged on the public gallows the week after next, down in the town plaza. They’re going to start buildin’ it this afternoon and Frank Hess will swing right alongside him.”
“No sign of Laredo?” Haines asked.
Hume shook his head. “We’ll catch up with him some time. Main thing is we’ve got Christian and we’ve recovered most of the money, apart from what had been spent, and there’s probably still a couple of robbers running loose with their shares. But it was a good assignment, Clay—Dakota. You’ve earned yourselves a rest but ... ” He shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid I’ve got a job for each of you, ready and waiting.”
“Suits me,” Dakota Haines said. “I’m raring to go now this wound’s healed. Been hangin’ around Yuma too long, what with the trial and all. Be glad to hit the trail again.”
“I hope you are,” Hume said, looking at him levelly. “Your job’ll take you to Texas, maybe down into Mexico.”
“Suits me,” Haines said again.
Maggie Moran slipped a hand through the crook of Nash’s arm. He looked thinner, fine-drawn. After bringing the wounded Christian back to Yuma, he had been three days in high fever and it had burned some flesh off him. He figured if he stayed around Yuma much longer, the cooking at the Morans’ place would pack so much extra poundage on him he would have to buy new clothes.
“Where will Clay’s assignment take him, Mr. Hume?” Maggie asked quietly.
“He’ll be going back to the assignment he quit to follow through on the Christian case. There’s been a sighting of Black Bart on the New Mexico-Arizona State Line. Definite this time. He robbed one of our stages there. You’ll have to pull out by sundown, Clay. Want you on the train to Flagstaff by then. Agent there can give you more information.”
Maggie looked disappointed but Nash was pleased enough. He still felt uneasy with the girl and her undisguised adoration for him. He liked her fine, and her mother, and all the other kids, but he felt the longer he stayed around the more complicated their relationship would become. And now that he was recovered and the trial was over, he was eager for more action.
“I’ll be on the train, Jim,” he told Hume and smiled at Maggie and her mother. “Maybe Mrs. Moran’ll bake me one of her apple pies to take with me.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, Clay,” Mrs. Moran said, smiling. She sobered and looked at the three of them. “You’re all good men, fine men, and I hope you get your reward for what you’ve done for me and mine.”
There was a catch to her voice that had the men looking down at the ground and moving their feet uneasily.
Maggie forced a smile and took Nash’s arm, easing him away from the group. “Come on, Clay. You could sure use a new shirt after getting the other ones so torn and dirty and shot full of holes. I’ll take you down to Bennison’s store and help you pick one.”
Nash smiled and gave the others a helpless look as he allowed her to lead him away down the boardwalk.
Haines and Hume walked off in the opposite direction, Mrs. Moran between them. None of them noticed the dark-haired woman in checked blouse and denim skirt across the street standing under the awning of the stage depot. Her eyes were dark and glittering as she looked at them and the hand she lifted to brush a strand of hair back out of her eyes was scarred with recent burns.
~*~
Dakota Haines was taking the same train out as Nash. He had a long trail ahead of him and had been briefed for most of the afternoon by Hume.
Clay Nash, wearing the new shirt Maggie Moran had chosen for him, and carrying hi
s warbag and saddle rig, walked down the depot platform towards the baggage car, where Dakota already stood smoking, his sawn-off shotgun swinging on its swivel. Nash nodded to him and heaved his saddle inside but kept his warbag beside him.
“So you’re headed for south of the border, Dakota?”
“Could be, accordin’ to Hume. Hell, he’s on the move all the time. Caught the train back to Tucson this afternoon right after he was through with me. He’ll be back again, week after next in time for the hangin’.” He shook his head. “Dunno how he can take so much train travellin’. Say, I hear Clint Christian’s back in the prison infirmary with that leg you shot. There’s talk they might amputate.”
Nash looked surprised. “Seems a mite unnecessary when they’re gonna hang him!”
Dakota shrugged. “He’s got a lot to answer for.”
“Sure, but—hell, Dakota! That’s no better than the Middle Ages when they used to chop a thief’s hands off before stringin’ him up! No, man, I don’t go along with that. Hang him sure, he’s got it comin’, but not the other as well.”
“Well, it won’t matter to us. We’ll be a long way from here when the hemp is knotted around Clint Christian’s neck. Say, how’d you get away without Maggie Moran comin’ down to wave goodbye?”
Nash smiled a little self-consciously. “She’ll be comin’ before the train pulls out, she reckons.”
Haines looked at Nash closely. “You could do a lot worse, pard.”
“Sure I could. But she’s just a kid, Dakota. It’s just infatuation. She’ll find someone more her style in a little while.”
He broke off abruptly, face deepening with a frown as he looked beyond Haines at a small procession coming down the platform. Haines, seeing the look, turned sharply and sucked in a breath, then started swearing softly.
Sheriff Buck Petersen walked alongside a high-wheeled stretcher on which lay the gaunt-faced and apparently unconscious Clint Christian. On the other side walked the prison doctor and behind came a deputy lawman with a shotgun cradled across his chest. The sheriff saw the two Wells Fargo agents and nodded to them as the prison warder wheeling the stretcher came to a stop by the doors of the baggage car.