Clay Nash 19

by Brett Waring

  “It’s a long story. Simply put, a man named Luke Farrell’s had his young daughter kidnapped by a varmint called Largo Brewster. My job is to deliver the ransom. A hundred thousand in gold.” He looked sharply at Shannon when he mentioned the gold but, as far as he could see, the expression didn’t change on the man’s long face. “To a place called Tomahawk, which doesn’t appear on any map. I got a hunch—which is to say—I know that Brewster’s not going to let the gal go. He hates her father too much. And there’s another reason I’ll tell you about later. I aim to set up my own welcome for Brewster when he comes to collect the ransom—so I can get the gal away safely. I need your help to do it. With you bein’ charged with trying to kill the Governor of the State, I couldn’t do a deal to get you out of prison. So I had to do it another way.”

  Shannon whistled softly. “You sure move when you make up your mind. And you’re pretty smart, Nash. I seen a couple gun whipped guards on the way out of that jail, but that was all.”

  “I didn’t aim for anyone to get hurt. Had to clip a couple fellers, but they’ll just have a headache, is all. Now, you savvy this, Shannon: you’re only out temporarily. I might be in one helluva lot of trouble, but I needed your talents and there was no time to do it any other way. But, you help me on this and I’ll guarantee to do all I can to keep you from wearin’ a hemp necktie when your trial comes up. I’ll have Jim Hume of Wells Fargo and some other big names speak up on your behalf. If you cooperate—and maybe tell who hired you to assassinate the Governor—it’s possible you’ll get only a token sentence.”

  Shannon said nothing for a long time. He refused the tobacco sack that Nash offered him, but continued to squat by the fire, his arms hanging over his bent knees, in much the same position he’d been in solitary.

  “You can’t guarantee me nothin’,” the killer said finally. “They’ll have your butt in a sling for bustin’ me out. No one’s gonna. listen to you, Nash.”

  The Wells Fargo operative held up a placating hand. “They will—when I bring back Farrell’s daughter safe and sound. And with Brewster’s bunch wiped out. They’ll listen.”

  Shannon shook his head. “They’ll want to nail you.”

  “Sure. They’ll want to,” Nash admitted. “But they won’t. I can look after myself, Shannon, and I guarantee to look after you. Providing you help me and hold up your end of the deal. Somethin’ else: you try to double-cross me, or figure you can sweet-talk me into lettin’ you go permanent, you forget it right now. First sign you look like you’re gonna make a run, I’ll cut you down. I’ll blow your knee caps off and you ought to know what that can do to a man. If I have to, I’ll kill you. Savvy?”

  Shannon’s dark eyes glittered beneath the fringe of matted, unkept hair that hung over his forehead. He stared for a long minute, then his beard moved and there was a faint flash of white among the hair. Nash saw that he was smiling.

  “We’d make a good team, Nash, you and me.”

  “I hope so. You agree to come, you remember you do like I say.”

  The killer nodded. “Well, it’s this way, Nash. This here cave’s better than solitary. Even for a day. I know Brewster. Crazy bastard. Orneriest sonuver this side of the Red River. I’ve seen some of his handiwork. On women as well as men. I ain’t heard nothin’ good about this Luke Farrell, but I got nothin’ agin his daughter. Fact is, I got a gal who’d be about her age, somewheres back on the West Coast. I’d hate like hell for anythin’ like this to happen to her.”

  “You’re saying you’ll go along with me, then?”

  Shannon nodded.

  “My conditions,” Nash warned.

  “Your conditions. But I don’t see how you aim to get the gal away without endangerin’ her.”

  “She’s already in danger and, you’re right, I’ll have to endanger her a mite more, but if I don’t, she’ll be dead.”

  Shannon nodded agreement with that. “Okay. What’s the plan ...?”

  Nash had just settled to start telling Shannon what he had in mind when suddenly there was a swift movement, a wild yell, and the convict was launching himself clear across the fire in a headlong dive. Nash was so taken by surprise that he couldn’t get out of the way in time. Shannon’s lean body cannoned into him and strong arms locked about him, one iron hand clawing at his throat, the other pulling his head up then slamming it hard against the cave floor.

  Lights exploded behind Nash’s eyes and he felt his senses slipping away. But he knew he was a dead man if that happened. He tried to claw the fingers away to break the stranglehold—but was unable to do so. Shannon’s face looked maniacal as he squeezed and tried to slam Nash’s head onto the hardpacked floor again but the agent fought with all his strength, realizing that Shannon was by no means as weak as he had made out ...

  Finally, he got his hand between the man’s rigid arms and violently scissored outwards, suddenly breaking the grip. Shannon’s reflexes were lightning fast and he almost had to hold back on Nash’s throat before the Wells Fargo man twisted away, backhanded him in the mouth and hooked an elbow against his ribs.

  Shannon slipped sideways and Nash rolled, lashing out with a boot. It caught the man on the side of the head and he grunted then fell back as he made to launch himself again at Nash. But he scrabbled a handful of embers from the fire and flung them at the Wells Fargo man. Nash covered his face but felt the sear of hot ash on his chest.

  Instinctively, he slapped at himself to get rid of the burning ash and Shannon came to his feet, crouched double then launched himself again with a wild yell.

  Nash recognized the cry as an Indian fighting whoop and that Shannon was using Indian tactics. He was butted in the face, and arms were clamped around his midriff in an effort to break his ribs.

  But Nash had his arms free and he ripped his thumbs into Shannon’s eyes. The man growled and twisted away, breaking his grip.

  Nash drew his Colt and gun whipped him behind the ear. Shannon collapsed to his hands and knees. Nash kicked the hands away and he crashed onto his face, moaning, a trickle of blood oozing down his neck. By the time he had come out of his daze, Nash had his hands tied behind him and his ankles bound tightly with rawhide thong.

  Shannon looked up through his tousled hair and grinned. “You’re a tough hombre, Nash.”

  “You, too,” admitted the Wells Fargo man. “Should’ve remembered you’d spent time with Injuns. So did I. Two years with Texas Apaches.”

  Shannon showed interest. “They didn’t keep you round that long as a prisoner. They must’ve made you a blood brother.”

  Nash nodded.

  “Judas, what’d you know? We might be blood brothers. I mean to each other. I was with Apaches. And Comanches. But that come later ...”

  Nash was watching him with narrowed eyes, massaging his throat. “That’s how you took so much of solitary. You’d learnt the Indian way. Got your mind livin’ outside of the physical hardships. You do it right and you don’t need grub, leastways not in large quantities, and you flex your muscles right and you stay fit. But you make yourself look mighty bad and weak ... I damn’ well should’ve remembered your file said you’d been with Indians. It was one reason I wanted you for this chore.”

  Shannon merely arched his eyebrows.

  “Could be we’ll have to live off the land, travel overland, away from the route we’re goin’ to be given. Because I want to get to Tomahawk Canyon long before Brewster.”

  Shannon laughed harshly. “Not much problem. I know a place called Tomahawk. Back in the Breaks behind the Cougar Hills. Outlaw hole-in-the-wall. I was hid-out there for a spell once after I ... well, let’s just say, I was hid out there for a spell.”

  Nash felt the excitement growing in him. “By hell! What directions they’ve given so far lead through the Cougars. It must be the same place.” Then he sobered some. “Too bad I can’t trust you, Shannon.”

  “Who says you can’t?”

  Nash snorted and rubbed at his throat.

  “Hell,
I was just testin’ you. Sort of. Had to see what kinda hombre was callin’ the shots. You measure up, Nash.”

  “Don’t give me that hogwash. You tried to kill me.”

  “You blame me for tryin’ to escape? You already told me I’m goin’ to be headin’ back to the pen eventually. And I’m a feller who likes his freedom, Nash.”

  The Wells Fargo man studied him for a long time, then squatted down and rolled another cigarette. He stared hard at Shannon through the smoke.

  “You saying you’ll still come along?”

  Shannon grinned. “How could you find Tomahawk without me?”

  Nash smiled slowly. “I’d do it, somehow. But I don’t trust you as far as I could throw my hoss.”

  “That’s fair. I don’t trust you, neither.”

  Nash laughed, shaking his head. “Damn me! All right, Shannon, this is what I’ll do: I need your marksmanship and your wilderness know-how if we’re gonna pull this off. I need to trust you for these things, but I’ve got to know I can depend on you to be where I want you, when I want you.”

  Shannon said nothing to that.

  “I know you’ll maybe try to escape if you can. A man like you wouldn’t be that kinda man if he didn’t. But I’ve studied your files from way back—and from what I can see, once you make a deal, you go through with it.”

  “If it’s sealed with a down-payment and I feel I can trust the other party.”

  “Okay. You’ve got a lawyer someplace, right?” Shannon nodded. “I’ll deposit two thousand bucks with him and get a receipt to show you. You can collect it after you do the job for me, or have him keep it to use to get you off the assassination charge ...”

  “Hell, there was nothin’ personal in that, Nash. I like the Governor. But it was strictly business. Politics. I don’t never enter into ’em: too dangerous, by far, for me. Once I get in the witness box, if there’s no other way, I’ll name the fellers who hired me. They didn’t pay me enough to keep quiet and get my neck stretched. So, one way or another, I’ll beat that charge. I ain’t too worried about it. But I am worried about bein’ locked up for a few years. I’m a feller likes to move, when I feel like movin’. If you can guarantee I’ll get some sort of good-behavior bond, if I spill the beans, we got a deal.”

  Nash shook his head. “Hell, man, I can’t guarantee that. You won’t get any sort of bond. The charge is attempted murder. You’ll have to do some time. Make up your mind to that.”

  Shannon studied Nash’s wolf-like face. “You’re straight from the shoulder like I always heard. I was testin’ you, Nash. If you’d said you could guarantee me a bond, we wouldn’t have a deal.”

  “And ...?”

  Shannon shrugged. “Cut me loose: I’ll go along with you.”

  “Not yet, mister. I’ve got to go into Cheyenne and get a few things. I want you right here when I get back.”

  Shannon smiled. “I ain’t planned to go nowhere.”

  “Just makin’ sure, is all,” said Nash—also with a smile.

  “By God, Clay!” exclaimed Jim Hume, striding angrily across the parlor of his rented house in Cheyenne. “I never figured for you to show your face in town after what you pulled last night.”

  Nash looked innocent. “Last night, Jim? Dunno what you’re talking about. I came in to see if Farrell had gotten that special Remington I asked for.”

  Hume stopped a few feet from Nash. He was livid with anger. “Clay, you’ve put me in one helluva position,” he gritted.

  “How come? You know what I was doin’ last night, Jim?”

  “Of course I damn well know what you were doin’. And if I’d had any idea you’d planned to break Shannon out of the pen, I’d ...”

  “That’s just it, Jim,” Nash said quietly. “You don’t know that I did that at all. I mean, if you knew for sure, you’d be in a bad position, right enough. You’d really have to go to the authorities and I’d be in all kinds of trouble. That’s if you knew anything about that jailbreak ... But you don’t do you, Jim? Not really, I mean. You’re just guessin’ and that don’t really count.”

  Nash looked levelly into his boss’ eyes as he talked but he saw no lessening of the hot anger. Hume’s nostrils flared and the air hissed through them as he studied his top gun. When he spoke, he did so through gritted teeth.

  “Clay, this is the wildest thing you’ve ever pulled. You can’t get away with it. I can’t cover for you. I can’t help you. You’re in this alone.”

  “I have been right from the start, Jim,” Nash told him. “I got no cooperation from Farrell and damn little from Wells Fargo. They told me to do this chore—or else. It’s only because of that little gal that I’m stickin’ with the chore. And by God I’ll do it my way.” Nash’s voice had a steel edge to it but he softened the tone as he added, “Don’t spoil it now, Jim. There’s a chance I can pull it off. Wild, mebbe, but a chance. You drop the trap from under me, and Mary Lee Farrell’s dead. It’s as simple as that.”

  Hume took a spell to calm down then he finally swung away, went through to another room and came back holding a paper wrapped package, thrusting it at Nash.

  “I believe high velocity ammunition as specified is in there somewhere.”

  Nash nodded, pulled the wrappings undone enough to see that the rifle was as he had ordered.

  “Fine, Jim. Any more word from Brewster?”

  “Not yet,” Hume said in clipped tones. “But you’d better go see Farrell and make arrangements to pick up that phony gold.”

  Nash nodded. “Thanks, Jim.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Hume told him. “I want nothing more to do with this. You’re on your own, Clay.”

  Nash stared at him a moment, then nodded slightly, turned and left the room.

  Hume stood where he was for a long time after Nash had gone, then slowly walked across to the sideboy and poured himself a very stiff brandy. His hand shook as he lifted the glass to his lips.

  Luke Farrell scowled at Nash as the man stood in his hotel suite, the paper-wrapped rifle held in his arms.

  “Yeah, I’ve got the bullion ready to go,” he growled in answer to Nash’s question.

  “The fake bullion,” Nash corrected him coldly.

  Farrell’s eyes narrowed. “All right, the fake bullion. Those lead ingots have been carefully coated with gold-based paint and buffed so they’ve got a shine on them. They look just like gold and feel like it.”

  “Except they’re lead—and all Brewster has to do is scrape off a little paint with his knife blade to find out.”

  Farrell smiled faintly. “Give me credit for some sense. It’s not pure lead under that paint. It’s pigmented: It’s mixed with brass and copper, has a luster not unlike gold. It’ll take some acid tests before Brewster knows for sure he’s been duped. That’s what’s taken so long to have it prepared. Cost plenty, too.”

  Nash’s face reflected his disgust. “Yeah. Possibly Mary Lee’s life.”

  Farrell flushed, then snapped his gaze to Nash. “It’s your job to see she gets back safely, Nash. You do, and you’ll have that ten thousand I promised you. You’ll find I keep my word.”

  “Bitchin’ all the way if you’ve got to dig into your pocket to do it. Aw, calm down, Farrell. I don’t have time to argue with you now. Look, I want you to pay two thousand dollars to this lawyer—name and address on the paper there. Take it out of the ten grand you’ve offered me. The other two grand I already spent, too, if you like. The dinero don’t interest me. But, if you want to see Mary Lee again, you’ll do like I ask.”

  Farrell’s face straightened as he looked up from the piece of paper. He nodded, surprising the Wells Fargo man.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll get the money paid.”

  Nash arched his eyebrows. “Then if the boxes are loaded on the pack mules, I’ll get goin’.”

  As Nash made to turn away, Farrell placed a hand on his forearm. His eyes were haunted.

  “Nash—we’ve had our differences. I don’t expect
you to savvy my reasons or actions ...”

  “Hell, I savvy ’em, all right,” Nash cut in. “You’re just so scared of dyin’ at Brewster’s hands that you’re willing to risk Mary Lee’s life to avoid it.”

  Farrell colored, then paled. He made no attempt to deny it.

  “Bring her back to me safely, Nash,” he said, quietly. “Please.”

  Clay didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say. He hefted the rifle and left the suite, walked to the bank where the ransom was packed in two shallow pine boxes and strapped to the backs of two mules, one apiece. The boxes were covered with tarpaulins, but shovels, pickaxe heads and timber protruded from beneath the tarps. The idea was that anyone seeing Nash heading into the Cougar Hills with the pack mules would think he was going mining.

  He hoped they would think that, anyway. But, although the whole deal had been kept as quiet as possible, there were a lot of folk involved. Those who had cast the ingots; the others who had painted them, loaded the boxes on the mules—and arranged the camouflage. There were unavoidably a lot of people involved.

  It was essential that Brewster and his spies figured strict security was observed, just as it would have been if the boxes contained real bullion.

  Nash mounted his waiting horse, took up the lead ropes and left Cheyenne by the back streets.

  Once clear of town, he headed out towards the cave where he had left Shannon tied up. He was going to have to place a lot of trust in the hombre—and it bothered him plenty.

  He was deep in thought, going over all the minute details of his plan, as he rode along. He wound through a dry wash that took him away from the normal trail and entered a twisted draw, brush-choked, the broken rims dotted with rocks and boulders, heading up into the foothills towards the cave where he had left Shell Shannon.

  Then a rifle on the rim suddenly whiplashed and an instant later, Nash felt the strike of lead jarring his big body. The impact flung him out of the saddle to crash to the trail, roll several times, and finally flop onto his face, unmoving.