Clay Nash 19

by Brett Waring

  Coe was shaking badly as he pressed close behind Nash who was watching the fire crew move towards the quarry. The guards were all watching the fire, and Nash waited a minute, but no one else came through the gate that had swung partly closed. He touched Coe’s arm and began to move but Coe didn’t follow. Nash turned savagely, grabbed the front of the man’s jacket and shook him.

  “Move,” he hissed. “Now. You delay and we’ll get nailed.”

  He sent Coe stumbling ahead and the gambler sobbed under his breath, then edged along the wall towards the gate. Just as they neared it, there was a movement and a man in guard’s uniform appeared, holding his rifle. He stood there, smoking and watching the fire over at the quarry. Suddenly, he spun towards Nash and Coe and brought up his rifle.

  “Who the hell’s that?” he demanded—the tone of his voice giving away the fact that he had been startled out of his wits.

  “Pete an’ Larry,” Nash said without hesitation, walking out of the shadow so that the faint wash of light from inside the compound showed his uniform. “What in hell happened out in the quarry ...?”

  “Damned if I know,” the guard said, squinting, trying to recognize the two men. He wasn’t any too sure although he lowered the rifle a little. “How’d you fellers get out here so fast? And in full uniform ...? Listen, I better ...”

  The rifle started to lift but Nash lashed out with his boot and drove it into the guard’s crotch. The man gave a strangled gasp and started to collapse. Nash grabbed the rifle and clubbed him behind the ear with the butt. He tossed the rifle to Coe and grabbed the guard under the arms, running with him to the edge of the dry wash and deftly tilting him over the edge.

  Then he ran back to where Coe stood rooted to the spot, took the rifle, and shoved him through the gate. Coe started to dig in his heels as the familiar, hated compound walls rose around him. Nash rammed the rifle barrel into his spine and shoved ...

  They were inside the penitentiary.

  Guards were coming out of buildings, some half-dressed, others in underwear or nightgowns. Nash nudged Coe and they walked briskly towards Cell Block A—beneath which were the cells of solitary confinement.

  “What’s goin’ on?” someone called.

  “Beats me,” Nash replied. “Looks like the powder store blew in the quarry. Fire crew reckon they need a hand if any of you hombres are feelin’ like volunteerin’.”

  Several started sprinting for the gate and one man yelled:

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Got to go on duty,” Nash replied.

  That seemed to satisfy the man for there were no more questions.

  Lights burned brightly in the long corridors between the rows of cells in Block A. Prisoners were at the barred doors, yelling and demanding to know what in hell was happening. Nash and Coe snarled unintelligible replies as two more guards walked down the corridor, raking their rifle butts across the knuckles of hands that gripped the bars. Prisoners cursed and the guards eased off as Nash and Coe approached.

  “Where you fellers goin’?” one man asked.

  “Relief for Solitary,” Coe murmured.

  “Solitary?” echoed the man, frowning. “Since when they had a relief guard? They go on sundown, come off sun-up.” He squinted. “Hey! Do I know you men?”

  “Like as not,” Nash said. “Both transferred up from Canyon City after supper.” He scowled. “Damn well missed out on a meal and we was put right to work.” He knew from files he had studied that two men were on their way up from Canyon City Prison but they weren’t due to arrive for another week.

  The cautious guard seemed uncertain as he turned and walked alongside them.

  “We wasn’t expectin’ you so soon.”

  “Governor down there seemed glad to get rid of us,” Nash said and, in conversational tones, added, “What’s this one like? I mean, we ain’t too impressed, missin’ a meal and drawin’ night duty right off ...”

  The guard stopped and was quickly joined by his companion.

  “Yeah, well that don’t change anythin’ about Solitary,” the first man said. “Sundown to sun-up ... So just what’re you hombres up to?”

  Nash was moving before the man had stopped speaking. They were near the door at the end of the corridor and he swiveled his sawn-off shotgun on its dog clip, notching back the hammers and covering both guards.

  “Through the door without a sound or I’ll blow you to rags,” Nash said quietly, turning so that his body shielded his actions with the sawn-off shotgun. He didn’t want the prisoners raising hell and maybe bringing in other guards.

  Coe, realizing he had to do his part or they would be captured, opened the door and the guards moved through, their eyes bulging as they stared in bewilderment at the shotgun.

  They marched the guards ahead of them down the corridor to the set of steps that led down into the bowels of the prison. There were no guards on the steps but, below, Nash could see a man seated on a stool outside another steel door. Nash leaned towards the guards, prodding each with the shotgun.

  “Just remember, at this range, I only need one shot to nail both of you. Now keep a hold of your rifles but forward of the trigger guards. Yeah, that’s it. Now how many other prisoners in solitary besides Currie?”

  “Currie,” one of the guards whispered. “So that’s it.”

  “Answer me,” Nash hissed, prodding with the shotgun.

  “Three,” the second man said hoarsely.

  They were nearing the foot of the steps, and the guard below was squinting through the shadows of the dimly-lit passage towards the foot of the steps. He relaxed some when he saw the group of what he took to be four guards.

  “That thunder I heard up above?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Electric storm,” Nash answered, knowing that this deep down the man wouldn’t have recognized the explosion as such. “We gotta take two of the prisoners up to the Governor’s office.”

  The guard frowned. “Yeah? Which two? Got an order?”

  Nash nudged one of the men with the shotgun.

  “Er—Carson and Wade. Joe here’s got the order, ain’t you, pard?”

  The second man flinched then murmured, “Oh, yeah, sure,” as he started to fumble in his tunic pocket. “Got it someplace ...”

  “Well, I can’t open that door till I see it,” the guard said. “Hell, you know the rules same as me.”

  “Aw, hang on,” Nash said suddenly, “I’ve got it.”

  The guard switched his attention from the other man as Nash suddenly stepped forward, ramming both barrels of the shotgun into the man’s midriff. He gagged and he began to buckle. Nash slammed a knee into his face. One of the other guards made a try to bring his gun around but Coe hit him with his six-gun butt. As the other one dropped his rifle and clawed the air, Coe slugged him in the midriff and again behind the ear. He kicked the man as he sprawled on the stone flags and Nash heaved him off.

  Coe spat on the man, and curled his lips. “Sonuver! Ornery bastard. He was here last time I was in—and he treated me mighty bad.”

  “Forget him,” Nash snapped, pushing Coe back again. “We’re not here for you to avenge yourself on the guards. Here—Get that door unlocked.” He thrust keys into Coe’s hands. The gambler nodded tightly and tried a key in the lock.

  The door swung open at the second try and they had to duck their heads as they went through into a narrow, tube-like passage of solid rock. It was wet in there, and a man in gray uniform was dozing on a three-legged stool at the far end, on the only raised and dry spot. Two candles on spikes afforded the only light.

  The man woke with a start as the iron door clanged back into place. He rose, already groping instinctively for his gun.

  “Relax, pard,” Nash said, striding swiftly forward. “We’re your relief.”

  That confused the man even more and he frowned as he tried to figure out what was happening.

  By that time, Nash had unhooked the shotgun and crashed the barrels across the side of the man
’s head. The Wells Fargo man gestured urgently for Coe to try his keys in the lock of door Number Five. The ex-prisoner sorted through the keys on the big ring, picked the one stamped with a ‘5’ and inserted it in the lock. It was hard to turn but the rusted springs and bolts finally slid back with a screech. Coe grabbed the handle and heaved the door outwards.

  Nash already had one of the wall candles in his hand and he stepped inside as Coe, nervous again, turned to face back down the passage towards the stairs.

  The stench in the cell was nauseating. There was no bunk and no stool. The only bedding was wet straw on the stone floor which was uneven and held scummed pools of green slime in the hollows. In one corner, a big, rawboned man in filthy rags sat with his long, lean forearms dangling over knobbly knees. His hair was unkept and his beard filthy with mud and stale food. He didn’t even move as a rat ran between his bare feet. But his piercing black eyes held to Nash’s face as the Wells Fargo man showed his distaste and stopped just inside the doorway.

  “Hurry up,” Coe called breathlessly.

  “You Dan Currie?” Nash asked.

  The man stared blankly.

  Nash nudged him not too gently in the ribs with his boot. “I want an answer.”

  The man’s eyes flared momentarily at the nudge, then he nodded almost imperceptibly, his long, preacher-like face expressionless.

  Nash reached down and heaved the man to his feet. The prisoner groaned as he straightened and swayed. Nash pushed him off instinctively.

  “I’m Clay Nash. My pard and me are takin’ you out of here—Shannon. You might know my sidekick, Nate Coe.”

  The prisoner seemed dazed. Nash knew there was no time to wait for it all to sink in. He grabbed a bony elbow and began to propel Shannon towards the door. The man was squinting away from the weak light of the candles. Coe was sweating and agitated, moving from foot to foot as he looked at the bearded man.

  “This him?” Nash asked.

  Coe nodded jerkily. “Far as I can tell. Look, Nash, they’ll be comin’ back into the compound before we get up there.”

  “Sure,” Nash said casually, urging Shannon towards the stairs and ignoring the yells of the other prisoners through their spy holes.

  Coe ran up alongside. “Well, how the hell we gonna get out through the main gate if there’s guards runnin’ everywhere?”

  “We get out with the Governor,” Nash told him—and while Coe was recovering from that one, he stepped ahead of the shambling Shannon into the upstairs passage.

  The guards were still unconscious and Nash took Coe’s plan of the prison from his shirt pocket, glanced at it swiftly to orientate himself, then grabbed Shannon’s arm, leading him towards a side door. Coe hurried after him, looking back.

  “Hell almighty, Nash! What you playin’ at? This is the way to the Governor’s office.”

  “Sure. He’s gonna see us out, I told you that.”

  “You’re plumb loco,” Coe said, his voice cracking.

  But he kept up alongside Nash and the man opened the door out of the cellblock and into the tunnel that led under the compound to the administration building where the Governor had his quarters.

  “The Governor won’t be there,” Coe almost screamed. “He’ll be out at the quarry or directin’ things in the prison ... They’ll be discoverin’ the guards any minute ...”

  “Governor’s got a wife, hasn’t he?” Nash asked.

  “Oh, God!” Coe groaned, hurrying after the other two.

  There was a door at the far end of the tunnel and this opened as Nash and Shannon passed out of the circle of light cast by one of the wall lanterns, and moved towards the next. In the brief time in the shadow, Nash grabbed Shannon’s arm and pushed the shotgun into his side. Coe saw that Nash was trying to give the impression of escorting a prisoner and he hurried up to get on the other side of Shannon, his gun slanted across and covering the wretched prisoner.

  Suddenly, a man in shirt sleeves came through the door. He had no weapons in sight and, brushing some hair back from his face, he frowned at the approaching group.

  “What’s this?” he demanded in a tone that implied he was used to getting immediate answers to his questions.

  “Prisoner to be taken to the Governor, sir,” Nash replied crisply.

  The man frowned, and Coe sucked down a sharp breath. Too late, Nash realized his mistake.

  “Interesting. Seeing as I am the Governor,” the man said as he made to step back swiftly through the doorway.

  Nash grabbed the edge of the door and wrenched it out of the Governor’s hand—then produced the shotgun.

  “No trouble—sir. We’ll take you—and your wife—with us through the gate. You’ll be turned loose, unharmed, provided you cooperate. Give us any trouble and ...”

  Nash finished the sentence with a shrug.

  The Governor looked at him defiantly.

  “You’ll leave my wife out of this.”

  “I think she’d better come, too, sir,” Nash said, looking at the gray-haired woman in dressing gown and slippers across the far side of the Spartan room where they stood. “You’re likely to stay in line better.”

  “You’ll never get away with this.”

  “Let’s go, Governor,” Nash said curtly. “You, too, ma’am. I understand that you always keep a buggy hitched, ready to go, because of your wife’s heart condition. I reckon that’ll be just fine to get us through the main gate.”

  “My God, whoever you are, you’ve got your damn cheek. I warned the State Governor someone might try to break out Currie, but I didn’t expect just two of you: more like a full assault.”

  “We’re wastin’ time, sir,” Nash cut in, shoving the man roughly on the shoulder. “You look after your wife. We don’t want anything to happen to her. Ma’am you have nothin’ at all to worry about. I give you my word.”

  “Thank you, young man,” the woman said in a surprisingly steady voice. “I believe I trust you. I obey my instincts and they tell me right now that you will keep your word ...”

  “Outlaws never keep their words, Martha,” the Governor said, but he took her arm gently and led the way to a door that opened to the courtyard.

  Coe stuck close to Nash and the Wells Fargo man held onto Shannon, giving the weakened man what support he could.

  Coe couldn’t believe it twenty minutes later when the Governor’s buggy rolled to a stop where the horses were tethered in the draw. They had crouched in the back of the buggy, guns in the Governor’s back. As he had driven through the compound gateway, he’d simply told the guards that he and his wife were going to inspect the damage in the quarry.

  Once in the blackness of the night, Nash had instructed him where to drive—and here they were, climbing down and ready to mount their horses for the getaway. Coe’s legs would barely support him, he was shaking so much with relief.

  “Get him roped to a saddle,” Nash commanded, pushing the staggering Shannon towards Coe. Then he moved to the buggy and began to unharness the horses. He touched a hand to the peak of his cap as he looked at the huddled woman on the passenger seat.

  “You’ll be all right here, ma’am. Just stay in the buggy and someone’ll come lookin’ pretty soon. You savvy we have to take the hosses with us. And the Governor. We leave him here, he’ll run back and raise the alarm a lot sooner than we want. We’ll turn him loose at the Lizard Rock, ’bout halfway between here and Cheyenne. You tell the party when it gets here. He’ll be all right.”

  “I’m trusting you, young man,” the woman said a little breathlessly.

  “Thanks for your cooperation, ma’am,” Nash said, then jerked his gun for the Governor to climb down.

  A few minutes later, they cleared the draw, the Governor roped to one of the horses from the buggy, the other running alongside, riderless. Shannon swayed a great deal, even though roped to his mount.

  Behind them, there was a dull glow in the sky as the flames in the quarry finally died.

  By sun-up, Nash had paid
off Coe and was leading Shannon to a place he had looked out previously, deep in the woods by the Bear River, with a cave hidden behind blackberry brush.

  Lying sprawled on his blankets in the cave, Shannon watched as Nash shed the guard’s uniform and dressed in his normal clothes before removing the false moustache and sideburns.

  “Well, mister, I don’t know you from Adam, but I sure thank you for bustin’ me loose. Leastways, I think I do. I ain’t sure what you got in mind for me yet.”

  Nash looked soberly at the man.

  “I’ll tell you. You agree, and you’ll be a couple thousand richer—and what you do might—just might—help your case when it comes up for trial.”

  Shannon stiffened. “What? You mean I ain’t out for keeps?”

  “Hell, no,” Nash told him easily. “This is only temporary.” Shannon stared uncomprehendingly, but Nash didn’t elaborate. Instead, his Colt palmed up and he sprinted to the cave entrance, flattening against the rock wall and peering through the brush. After a spell, he went out cautiously, then came back a few minutes later, holstering the six-gun.

  “Thought I heard someone, but nothin’ in sight. Yeah, we got some talkin’ to do, Shannon. Let’s do it over breakfast and, depending on your answer, I’ve either got to go pick up a fancy rifle—or deliver you back to the State Pen.”

  Seven – Delivery

  Shannon didn’t eat much. When Nash expressed his surprise, the man merely shrugged and said he’d been so long in solitary that his belly had shrunk and, anyway, he simply wasn’t used to decent grub. He figured he would get his appetite back at a later date.

  “Nash, I’ve heard of you. I know you’re Wells Fargo’s top trouble-shooter. Now you’ve busted me outta jail. I got to have missed somethin’ along the way.”

  Nash stared at him in the sunlit cave. Shannon seemed weak and moved slowly, as though every motion was an effort. Yet there was a deadliness about the man. And his mind was alert enough.