by Brett Waring
Brick Sawtell frowned at the rancher’s tone. “We got your daughter, mister. You forgot that?”
“Not by a damn sight! It still goes, Sawtell. I’m calling the shots on the ransom delivery.” He smiled thinly. “And while Brewster might figure to argue some with me about it, I reckon he won’t get too far, because his men are more interested in the gold than they are in seein’ me carved up and swinging from a cottonwood.”
Sawtell’s nostrils flared and he chewed at his lower lip as Farrell continued.
“What’s between Brewster and me can be settled some other time. Them’s my terms.”
Brick slowly shook his head. “You really are an ornery son of a bitch, ain’t you? You’d risk that gal’s neck and safety just so you don’t have to go to that canyon.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Farrell growled. “Brewster’ll savvy. And he’ll go along with it—or he’ll never see that gold.”
“Well, I’ll tell him. But he ain’t gonna be happy.”
“That’ll make me lose sleep,” Farrell snapped as he moved to the door and opened it, holding the kerchief against his face. “Get out.”
Sawtell took his time in leaving and he stared hard at Farrell all the way across the room, as if waiting for the rancher to break, to admit he was only joshing, that he would carry the gold there on his back if that was what Brewster wanted ... But Farrell said nothing. Brick Sawtell shrugged, jammed his hat on his head and went out ...
Downstairs, he stepped onto the hotel porch and paused with hands on his hips, looking across the street at the saloon opposite. He licked his lips, recalling the mellow taste of Farrell’s whisky, then lurched down the steps and made his way across the street and into the saloon.
Clay Nash had been waiting in the bar at the front, keeping an eye on the hotel, and when Sawtell breasted the counter and ordered a bottle of redeye, Nash drained his glass of beer and walked the length of the room. He slammed the heavy-based beer mug on the zinc-topped counter and bellowed for a refill, jostling Brick Sawtell’s arm as the man poured his first slug of whisky into his smeared shot glass.
“Watch what the hell you’re at, feller,” Sawtell snarled, rounding on Nash. “That damn likker costs good money.”
Nash swayed a trifle unsteadily on his feet as he squinted at Sawtell. “Just don’t hog the bar, amigo,” he said levelly.
“What you mean ‘hog the bar’?” snarled Sawtell. “You got plenty of room but you have to come on down and jostle me and ...”
The red-bearded outlaw stopped abruptly. He frowned, looked around at the silent room. All eyes were on him and Nash, waiting for the fight to explode. Sawtell chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip, squinting at Nash.
“Yeah. How come you jostled me, feller, when you got ten, twelve feet of bar to yourself?” he asked suspiciously. “You crowdin’ me a’purpose?”
Nash looked innocent. “Now why would I do that?”
“I—ain’t sure,” Sawtell said, and turned abruptly, slamming the cork in the whisky bottle with the heel of his hand. He dropped a coin on the counter and spoke to the barkeep. “I’ll just take this with me.”
He gave Nash one final hard look and turned to stride away. Nash thrust out his foot between Sawtell’s legs and the man swore as he staggered and stumbled, falling to his knees. The bottle slipped from his fingers and broke on the floor, the reddish spirits soaking into the sawdust. The local drunk groaned and looked swiftly away from such waste.
Sawtell hung there on hands and knees, staring at the broken glass between his spread hands. Then he nodded slowly as if in answer to some question he had asked himself and abruptly heaved himself to his feet with a roar and flung a handful of damp sawdust into Nash’s face. The Wells Fargo man lifted his hands instinctively and staggered back.
Sawtell charged in, his big fists swinging. They thudded solidly against Nash’s ribs and midriff and the man sagged, fell across a card table and the players scattered. Sawtell grabbed the table edge and heaved, spilling Nash to the floor among pasteboards and chips and money. He slugged through the protesting players and as the dazed Wells Fargo detective started to stagger up, Sawtell kicked him in the chest and clubbed him behind the ear with a fist like a knotted tree root.
Nash sprawled on his face on the filthy floor, moaned, and instinctively rolled onto his back knowing Sawtell’s next move would be to stomp him. He saw the high heel and spur raking at his face. He grabbed—and the rowel gouged into his left hand. He strained his muscles, holding the man by one foot and then, with a mighty effort, sat up violently, heaving and twisting.
Sawtell yelled as his ankle almost snapped and he was hurled like a bundle of washing across the next two card tables. He landed with a crash of splintering wood and Nash staggered erect, wiped blood from his nostrils and heaved overturned chairs aside as he lunged in. The redhead shook his head, rose onto his shoulders and kicked upwards.
Nash jumped back, swiftly stepped around the flailing legs and bored in, both boots kicking. One kicked the gun from Sawtell’s hand as he dragged it free from the holster and the other slammed into the man’s ribcage. The outlaw grunted and Nash stomped hard on the hand that clawed in an effort to reach the fallen Colt. He set his weight on the heel of his boot and Brick Sawtell roared as the bones broke in his hand.
The intense pain drove him to his feet but Nash was waiting. Both fists hammered like pistons, belting into Sawtell’s midriff, battering his face, driving him back against the wall. Sawtell tried to cover and yelled as his busted hand caught a blow. Nash smashed his feeble guard aside and drove a straight right into the middle of the man’s face. The nose went with a dull crack and Sawtell’s head smashed against the woodwork. His eyes showed the whites as his knees buckled.
Nash stepped back and the man dropped to his knees. Clay Nash stepped forward and a haymaker came from behind him and exploded against Brick Sawtell’s jaw. The man was flung along the wall where he sprawled awkwardly then flopped over onto his face, unmoving, his blood soaking into the sawdust.
Nash sucked sore knuckles, wiped his face with a kerchief and picked up his hat. He grabbed Sawtell by the shirt collar and dragged him into the alley at the side of the saloon. He hauled him down to the main street and over to the wooden horse trough. He set the groaning man on his knees beside it, then pushed his head under the filthy water. Then Nash twisted his fingers in the man’s hair and yanked his face out. Sawtell belched and gulped and gagged for air, glaring at Nash.
“Wh-who’re you?” the outlaw slurred.
“Nash.”
Sawtell groaned and slumped against the trough. “Hell, I shoulda—knowed you was—proddin’ me for—some reason ...”
“You bet your britches, amigo,” Nash told him tightly. His gun appeared in his hand as if by magic and the hammer clicked back to full cock. The muzzle rammed hard beneath Sawtell’s swollen jaw. “You got some talkin’ to do, mister.”
“Hell, you’re plumb loco,” Sawtell gasped. “You can’t treat me like this.”
Nash merely grinned mirthlessly and pressed the blade foresight against Sawtell’s cheek, starting to rip it up.
“He’s right, Nash,” a breathless voice said behind him; a voice he recognized as belonging to Farrell even before he looked around. “For God’s sake don’t be stupid.”
Sawtell wriggled an inch away from the foresight. “If I don’t show—certain place—certain time—the gal gets hurt,” he said flatly.
“Hell, I figured that,” Nash said. “But I can have him beggin’ to tell us where the gal is in twenty minutes, Farrell.”
“No.”
“Damn it, it’s the only way,” Nash snarled. “We’ve got our hands on one of Brewster’s bunch here, Farrell. We let him go now, we’re plain fools.”
“It’s too risky, Clay,” Jim Hume said, pushing through the crowd that had gathered. He reached out and pushed Nash’s Colt out of the way. “You’re playing with Mary Lee’s life. I can’t allow it.”
>
“Nor I,” snapped Farrell.
Sawtell stared at him. “Hell, you can talk.”
“Shut up, you, and get on your way.”
“What’s he mean?” Nash asked, frowning.
“Nothing,” Farrell snapped. “Turn him loose, Nash.”
“It has to be that way, Clay,” Jim Hume said. “If it was one of our agents involved, I’d say go ahead, but not where a young gal’s life is endangered ...”
Nash planted a boot on Sawtell’s chest as the man made to rise. “Hold up. Just what’d you mean before?”
Sawtell scowled at Farrell. “Ask him. But you better let me go now. Time’s runnin’ out.”
Hume nodded and put a restraining hand on Nash’s arm. The tough operative reluctantly allowed the red-bearded outlaw to get up. The man dusted himself down, wrapped a kerchief awkwardly about his swollen, broken gun-hand and glared his hatred at Nash.
“You and me’re gonna meet again when you deliver that gold,” he hissed, then turned his gaze to the rancher. “Havin’ him stand in for you suits me fine now, mister. But I’ll give Largo your message, anyway.”
Sawtell shouldered past the group and Hume had to hold Nash back. The detective glared at Farrell.
“You gonna explain?”
The rancher sighed resignedly. “Well, it seems Brewster was expectin’ me to make the delivery. I told Sawtell I wouldn’t be, that it was your chore. He’s to tell Brewster that no matter what, I ain’t goin’ to be fool enough to walk knowingly into his clutches.”
Nash cursed. “Hell almighty! And you stopped me workin’ over Sawtell because you figured I’d endanger Mary Lee.”
Farrell met and held Nash’s gaze. “I’ll play this my way,” he said quietly.
“Then do it without me,” Nash said as he swung his right fist hard up against Farrell’s jaw, knocking the rancher sprawling in the dust. “I dunno whether you’re a fool or just plain yeller, but I’m finished with you.”
“Clay,” Jim Hume snapped as Nash stormed off.
He had never seen Clay Nash so steamed-up over anything—or anyone.
Four – Nash’s Way
Largo Brewster roared curses for five minutes after Brick Sawtell told him of Farrell’s decision.
“That ornery ... lousy ... varmint,” he said, breathlessly running out of filthy names. He began pacing back and forth across the hardpan floor of the big cave the men were using as their hideout. The others were lounging around with their eyes fixed on Brewster, trying to gauge his mood. If he were proddy enough, he would likely take it out on them. And even though they were mighty hard hombres, none of them wanted to tangle with Largo Brewster.
Far back in the cave, tied hand and foot and sprawled on a smelly buffalo robe, lay Mary Lee Farrell, her eyes watching apprehensively. There was a cooking fire nearby, beneath a natural flue in the rock that sucked the smoke away. A heavy-jowled Indian squaw called Oro squatted over the flames, stirring corn mush in a scaled iron pot. The squaw glanced towards Mary Lee and, as always, her black glittering eyes were expressionless. They never changed: and it scared the young girl. No matter what Oro was doing, her eyes always looked the same—even when Largo was pawing her on the blankets only a few feet away ...
She had sometimes seen the squaw take a deer that had been shot by one of the men, skin it then gut and quarter it without turning a hair, doing the job expertly. She appeared to like working with knives and spent much of her time sharpening them—running her hands over the blades lovingly.
In the time Mary Lee had been there, she had never heard Oro utter a sound. At first she had thought she was a deaf mute, but she sure wasn’t deaf. In fact, she had mighty keen hearing and often warned of sounds outside the cave, by gestures, long before the others picked them up. But she never spoke or grunted or even coughed ...
Mary Lee was scared of Oro, almost as scared of the squaw as she was of crazy Largo ...
And now, it seemed, her father had upset Brewster considerably. So far, she had been treated roughly and she knew her body was bruised from the cuffs and kicks she had taken, but despite leering, lecherous looks from the outlaws, she hadn’t been abused.
She began to shake as Largo at last stopped his pacing and turned to stare directly at her, his loco eyes boring into her with that crazy glint. He had spent hours telling her how much he hated her father, how it was the time for the reckoning that had been coming for years.
He had given her very little hope of ever coming out of the situation alive.
Mary Lee cringed as Largo Brewster walked towards her end of the cave and stood above her.
In the background, Brick Sawtell was getting Coley to bandage his smashed hand and was already moaning in pain. The two known as Lafe and Waco sat on their blankets cleaning their guns, but watching Largo at the same time.
He placed his hands on his hips and nudged Mary Lee with a mud-caked boot. “You hear? You’re old man’s got a yeller streak. Won’t bring the ransom hisself.”
“I—I don’t think that’s yellow,” Mary Lee answered, a little breathlessly. “I think that’s being smart.”
Largo bared his teeth and leaned down, snatching a handful of hair and hauling her to a sitting position. He shook the girl like a dog shaking a packrat.
“You figure he’s bein’ smart, huh?” Brewster gritted. “Huh?”
“Yes,” cried Mary Lee. “He knows you’d only kill him if he showed up. And he’s right. You plan to kill me, too, don’t you? Whether the ransom’s paid or not!”
Largo laughed harshly. He pulled down the bandanna from around his neck, revealing the twisted scar of a rope burn.
“I got that to square away,” he said simply. “And my voice. It hurts me like hell to talk above a whisper. Winter time, I got one long ache in my throat, like a hand throttling me, and I get me all kinds a chest complaints. My head aches night and day and the back of my neck and spine are weak: I can’t lift much without poppin’ a couple spools in my spine and suffering all kinds a hell till Oro can manipulate ’em back.” He shook her savagely and thrust his face close. “So you see, I ain’t got nothin’ to thank your old man for except a lot of misery. I aim to grow rich on your old man, let him set me up in comfort for the rest of my life ... And I aim to see he suffers plenty before I end his.”
He slapped her viciously across the face suddenly and Mary Lee had time only to gasp before she was knocked sprawling on the blanket. He hauled back on her hair and pulled her erect again. She sobbed in pain as Largo’s eyes blazed crazily.
“He don’t think of anyone much but hisself, your old man, but he has a soft spot for you, gal, and that’s his weakness. Which makes it just bad luck for you.”
He pushed her to the blanket and hit her again. Then, air hissing through pinched nostrils, he stood up and glared around at Coley, Brick and Waco. Lafe had gone to refill the saddle canteens at the creek flowing nearby.
Largo raked the men with his loco eyes.
“You fellers’ve been complainin’ it gets mighty cold at night in this here cave,” he said slowly, dropping his gaze to the dazed girl. His mouth twisted in a grin. “Well, you can all have a bed warmer. Startin’ tonight.” He nudged Mary Lee as she stared up at him in horror.
At the other end of the cave, the outlaws exchanged glances as smiles spread across their stubbled features.
Mary Lee began to sob. But she knew it would do her no good. No good at all.
The man used the name of ‘Herriott’ these days, but Nash knew his real name was Coe and that he had served a heap of time in various State prisons over the years.
He was a stagecoach bandit who had twice been arrested by Clay Nash and put away. His last sentence had been reduced considerably because Nash had ‘persuaded’ him to turn State’s evidence. The man’s companions had all been hanged for their part in a brutal robbery.
That, in Nash’s book, made it that Coe owed him. And with that in mind, Nash rode slowly into Bear Paw, thirty miles sout
hwest of Cheyenne ...
As Herriott, Coe was working as a house gambler at the Ace High Saloon. The man had grown a moustache, kept his head shaved totally bald and hoped, with the change of name, that none of his old pards from his wild days in Colorado and Texas would recognize him. But a man who’d ‘ratted’ on his companions—no matter what sort of people they were—couldn’t really expect to lead a very relaxing sort of life ...
As Nash walked towards the main table he saw Coe idly shuffling cards—no doubt waiting for some sucker to come along and offer to try and beat the house deck. The man stiffened when he saw the big Wells Fargo agent approaching.
He spilled the cards on the green baize and his gimlet eyes darted around, looking for possible help from the saloon bouncers who were always alert for trouble. But he hesitated: he knew Nash and how tough the man could be. He also knew he hadn’t done anything that should concern Nash—at least not officially. Sure, he four-flushed the greenhorns and dealt from the bottom of the deck, but that was more or less house rules. He skimmed a little off the house percentage, too, but that probably wouldn’t bother Nash any, either.
Coe swallowed and ran a shaking hand over his bald, sweat-sheened head. Nash was there for only one reason, he figured.
He’d arrived to collect the debt.
Nathan Coe cleared his throat nervously as the Wells Fargo man hooked a chair with his boot and dropped into it, leaning his forearms on the table and letting his chill gray eyes bore into Coe’s.
“Howdy, Nate,” Nash said.
Coe nodded jerkily, his eyes darting about and his fingers awkwardly scooping up the cards. “Howdy, Nash. You—you want a game of stud?”
Nash let a flicker of a smile touch his lips. Coe sighed and shrugged. He placed the cards on the table then wiped his sweating palms on his trousers.
“Okay, what you want?” He lowered his voice as he added: “And don’t forget my name’s Herriott here.”
“If I forget, it’ll be on purpose,” Nash told him and saw the blood drain from Coe’s face at his words: it told him that Nash wasn’t going to beat about the bush. He wanted something and Coe had better come across or he would suffer for it, one way or another.