by Brett Waring
Wells Fargo’s top operative, Clay Nash, was hot on the trail of an outlaw gang who had stolen a fortune in golden coins. But just as the net was closing, he was recalled to Denver to hear some bad news. His boss, Jim Hume, had been badly shot by a mysterious stagecoach robber, and wasn’t expected to live. Clay and Jim went back a long way together, and he swore there and then that Jim’s attacker was going to pay for what he’d done.
But first he had to find him.
The trail led him all the way to the Big Muddy, and an audacious plan to launder that fortune in golden coins aboard the sternwheelers that plied the river.
Before Clay could act, however, he found himself shackled and thrown into a dank, dark hold … filled with rats determined to chew the flesh right off his bones!
CLAY NASH 13: GUNS ON BIG RIVER
By Brett Waring
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Edition: December 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
Chapter One – Too Many Guns
It was one of the quietest parts of the long trail from St. Louis down to Victoria Flats.
And the man with the gun, lying full length in the rocks that overlooked the trail as it wound down from the ridge, knew it.
His keen ears had picked up the rumbling clatter of the Concord coach as it climbed the ridge on the far side and he settled himself into a slightly more comfortable position, taking time only to glance below at the bushes, and the six rifle barrels poking out of them. He notched the hammer back on the long-barreled Winchester ’76 ...
He commanded a good view, and had spent weeks preparing for the moment. But he wasn’t excited or tense. It wasn’t the first time he had done that sort of thing and it wouldn’t be the last. He had plenty of confidence in himself and his plan: it would work, as it had on past occasions.
The driver of the Wells Fargo Concord let out an audible curse followed by a swift ‘Yaa-haaa!’ and the sharp snap of the whip as he cracked it over the rumps of the laboring team as it topped the ridge. It was steep on the other side and, just as the rifleman had expected, the first thing he saw was the ears of the leading horses. These were swiftly followed by the heads and humped shoulders and, before the second set of animals were visible, the hats of the driver and guard were breaking the skyline.
The man settled the rifle sights on the big guard who sat in his seat with a shotgun resting on his knee. The barrels pointed skywards, out at a slight angle; his hand was wrapped around the butt behind the trigger guard and his thumb lay between the twin hammer spurs. It was the official Wells Fargo method and the man knew the guard was keen. Some merely dozed for most of the journey, particularly in quiet sections of the trail, but not so the guard on that run.
Calmly, the man beaded the guard’s chest, followed his progress as the stage rocked down the incline and reached a level stretch, then moved the foresight to the man’s head.
He squeezed trigger and the gun jerked in recoil.
As the dead man plunged over the side of the stage and the shocked driver looked at the blood spots that suddenly spattered his hands, the killer was mounted and riding towards the coach.
He pulled up the bandanna over the lower half of his face and smiled behind it as he heard the driver yelling and pulling hard on the reins. Almost immediately there came the squeals of the horses and the shuddering and creaking of the stagecoach as it was hauled violently to a stop.
The killer rounded the base of the rocks and saw that the stage was still swaying on its leather springs behind the pile of logs and rubble he had used to block the trail around the bend. He could hear the passengers swearing and yelling as they tried to untangle themselves from the heap they had been flung into by the violent braking. The guard’s body lay in a shapeless bundle beside the trail, ten yards away.
The driver was on his feet, holding the reins taut as the lead horses pawed the air in confusion. Dust rose in thick clouds and the killer threaded his mount through the rubble, stopped it on a clear spot and loosed off a single shot.
The horses whickered and plunged as the driver released the reins and thrust his hands into the air, his face white.
“You got the idea, mister,” the killer shouted. “The rest of you in there ... Come on out, one at a time with your hands up.”
He put a shot through the roof of the coach and heard a woman scream. He laughed behind his mask as he levered in another shell.
“Just before you do—in case you gents in there got any fancy ideas of bein’ heroes—take a look out the windows. See them rifles coverin’ you? I got six men there. You try to get froggy and this spot’ll be turned into a butcher’s shop. I promise you.”
The driver’s legs were shaking as he stood and gazed around.
“He’s speakin’ gospel,” the man croaked. “I can see the rifles—four-five—yeah, six of ’em. Better do as he says, folks. The company’ll compensate you for whatever you lose. No sense in fightin’ it.”
“Now there speaks a sensible man,” the bandit said. “He’s likely to live to a ripe old age cooperatin’ that way. If the rest of you got any sense at all, you’ll take heed of what he says.” Then his voice hardened as he dropped the bantering tone. “Now get out and make it pronto. Ladies first. They’ll be the first to die should any of you hombres try anythin’. Move, damn it.”
First out was a gray-haired woman dressed in black, with a veil hanging from her face. The bandit figured she was a widow, still in mourning. Not that it made any difference: his eyes were holding to the gold rings on her fingers, the gold-and-ruby-studded brooch on her breast, and the jeweled hatpin.
She was followed by a timid-looking woman in her twenties; pale, thin, clutching desperately at a purse.
The killer’s mouth curled behind the mask. By the looks of her, the purse would contain no more than a few dollars: he had learned long ago that the poor clung to their possessions more tenaciously than did the rich to their treasures. But he had also learned never to pass up the chance to look into the purses or wallets of apparently poor people.
He had once picked up a thousand dollars that way: the winnings from a card table.
There were four men. One was obviously a drummer and he figured he would have no trouble with him: drummers were paid to sell goods, not risk their lives, and, likely he would be compensated for any losses by his employers. Two others looked like storekeepers and, hopefully, the pickings would be fat there.
The fourth man interested the killer immensely.
He was a man slightly below average height, rotund, but with a beefy neck and thick shoulders that spoke of bull strength. He wore a brown Derby hat and his face was square, broadened even further by the heavy moustache above a firm mouth. The eyes were cool and penetrating, restlessly studying the bandit and occasionally flicking to the rifles that covered them all from the bushes either side of the trail and a little ahead of the coach. He even managed to turn his head slightly as he raised his thick arms and glanced behind.
“No, all the rifles are at the side
s and the front, mister,” the bandit said quietly, his eyes narrowing above the mask. “Lift them hands a mite higher and take off the Derby.”
The younger woman looked about ready to swoon but the bandit took no notice when she lowered one hand to grip at the spokes of the rear wheel of the stagecoach for support.
The thickset man removed his hat and held onto it.
“Watch ’em close, boys,” the killer said to the unseen bandits in the bushes as he nudged his mount forward. He stopped it behind the thickset man, freed a boot from his stirrup, and placed it in the middle of the man’s back. He thrust him violently forward and the young woman swooned away with a choked cry as he was flung to hands and knees in the trail.
The bandit stared at the man then frowned. “I was right. You’re Jim Hume,” he growled.
Hume sat up and began to dust himself down but froze as the rifle barrel jerked menacingly.
“Quit that! I know your reputation with hideaway guns, Hume. You just stand up, slow and easy, and lift them hands high.”
James Hume, Chief of Detectives for the Wells Fargo Company, got to his feet and lifted his big hands. He squinted at the man on the horse, trying to place him. He knew he was in a very dangerous situation. His reputation was such that many bandits had sworn to kill him on sight ...
“I know you?” Hume asked, merely for something to say rather than expecting an answer.
“I know you. An’ that’s all that counts,” the bandit said. He flicked his eyes to the tensed passengers and the shaking driver. “Start emptyin’ your pockets and purses. Driver, climb down and pass round your hat. Put the valuables in there, folks, and mebbe everyone’ll live to get to Victoria Flats. Just one hint of any false moves—one hint—and you’ll all be riddled. I’ve already killed one man. An’ they can only hang me once.”
The driver obeyed and the passengers were already tugging out wallets and valuables. The bandit walked his mount behind Hume. He stiffened as the rifle barrel pressed into the back of his neck.
“Your wallet, too. But hand it to me. With your watch. I happen to know it’s solid gold. Wells Fargo gave it to you for your service to the company.” His voice took on a bitter note. “For capturin’ all them bad hombres who held up your coaches or robbed your express boxes, or blew your depot safes, or killed your men.”
The rifle barrel jerked forward brutally and Hume grunted as the foresight raked the back of his head.
Carefully, Hume reached into his jacket and drew out his black kid wallet. Then he unhooked the gold chain with the heavy links and held up the watch and the wallet. They were jerked from his hands.
“An’ the ring.”
Hume sighed and tugged at his ring but folds of fat prevented it from slipping over his knuckle. He wet the finger and worked at it until the ring came off, pulling skin with it. The bandit snatched it from him and laughed.
“How you doin’, driver?”
“All here,” the man croaked, holding out his bulging hat.
“Bring it over.”
The bandit flipped back the flap of one saddlebag and ordered the driver to tip the contents into the bag. Then he kicked the man squarely in the face and sent him staggering back to fall to his knees near the widow. The other female was still sprawled in a dead faint.
“Strip down to your underwear, Hume,” the bandit ordered.
“What?
Hume twisted his head around abruptly but the rifle barrel slammed across the side of his head and sent him staggering sideways.
The widow covered her face with her hands, shaking uncontrollably.
“Do it,” commanded the bandit.
Hume frowned up at the man as he began to slip off his jacket. He was trying to place the voice, the man’s size and coloring, even the way the heels of his riding boots were worn. Hume was accustomed to taking notice of everything about men who thought they could beat his security measures. He took particular notice of mannerisms, the style of operation and the calibers of the weapons they used. Jim Hume was one of the first men in the United States to see the potential of ballistics as a means of convicting bandits.
He was sure he didn’t know the man and yet the killer wanted to humiliate him, to hurt him. It spoke of vengeance so he figured he just had to know the man’s identity: the bandit was obviously paying Hume back for something, some past injury ...
“Hurry it up,” the man snapped.
Hume finally stripped to his Long Johns and forced himself to stop feeling embarrassed. He was concentrating all his thoughts on the mounted man. If he could make a guess at his identity, he might throw the man by mentioning his name. But then, he thought, maybe it would endanger the others. If he identified the killer, out loud, the man would very likely kill the passengers so there would be no witnesses to testify.
“Who the hell are you?” Hume asked, stalling.
“That’s goin’ to be one of the things you’ll never know, Hume,” the killer told him. “Hell, you sure look a sorry sight. I got a damn notion to make you strip buck-naked ...”
He paused as the widow gave a small cry and crumpled in a faint across the legs of the other woman. The man laughed behind his mask.
“First, though, you’re goin’ to open that express box for me.”
“I don’t have the key.”
“Find it,” he said indicating his pile of clothes.
Hume obeyed but said, “See? I’m only riding down to Victoria Flats on a social trip. Not company business. The key’s down at the depot.”
“Guess it don’t matter, anyway,” the killer said. He moved his horse so that he could see through the doorway of the coach and motioned impatiently for the other passengers and driver to step aside.
They jumped as his rifle blasted in two fast shots, splintering the wood around the padlock. A third shot ripped the padlock and hasp loose. He spun in the saddle as Hume lunged for the driver’s Colt, still in its holster on the man’s hip.
The rifle spat again and Hume propped, clasping at his left arm. The driver swiftly stepped away, thrusting his hands high: he didn’t aim to let the bandit think he was making any sort of resistance.
Hume staggered upright, holding his bleeding arm tightly, his face contorted with pain. He glared at the mounted man as he levered another shell into the chamber and ordered the drummer to bring out the contents of the express box.
The man moved woodenly and brought over two canvas sacks of money and a leather valise. At the killer’s orders, he placed them in the second saddlebag then scurried back to stand beside the stage with his hands held high.
“Now get down to your bare skin, Hume.”
Hume gritted his teeth against the pain and shrugged out of his Long Johns to stand naked in the pale sunlight. The bandit laughed then jerked the rifle barrel towards the pile of rubble blocking the trail.
“Climb up there so’s we can all see you.” He looked around at the bushes. “There’s a sight for sore eyes, boys.”
Hume flushed and climbed slowly up the mound of rocks and rubble, dancing gingerly on tender feet. As he reached the top, the bandit ordered him to turn around ...
“You look ridiculous, Hume, and it sure pleasures me.”
“Shows what a small mind you got. Ain’t you even goin’ to tell me who you are?”
“That’s just one more little bit of pain for you, Hume. You’ll go straight to hell wonderin’ which one of the men you destroyed over the years finally caught up with you. An’ even if you had time to get through every one of ’em, you’d still be wrong.”
He fired, and Jim Hume’s blocky body convulsed as the heavy rifle bullet smashed into the center of his chest and slammed him back off the top of the pile of rubble.
The passengers stiffened as the masked man turned his attention to them.
“You’re closer to Victoria Flats than anyplace else right now. Clear away that rubble and head for there. But first you toss all your guns into the bushes, far as you can. Consider yourselves luc
ky that I’m lettin’ you live. This time.” He reined his mount around, watching critically as the men collected every weapon on the stage and flung them into the brush. “Okay. Now start clearin’ away that rubble. Adios. Thank the ladies for their contributions when they come round.”
He loosed off two swift shots that sent the men running then raced his mount away into the brush. The shaken passengers stood for a few seconds in stunned silence. Finally, the driver said, “What about Mr. Hume?”
“Bit late to be thinkin’ about him, you yeller bastard,” growled the drummer. “You done nothin’ to protect us, or to help him. An’ I aim to see Wells Fargo hear about it. I’ll have your job, you lousy yeller belly.”
The man looked sick and there was a whine in his voice as he said, “Hell almighty! What could I do? There was just too many guns.” He waved a shaking hand towards the rifles still menacing them, then he lowered his voice abruptly. “They’re still watchin’ us.”
One of the other men frowned. “Must be goin’ to give the leader time to get clear.”
“Wonder how long they’re aimin’ to stay?” asked another.
The drummer was staring hard at the brush. “You know, I just realized somethin’. That killer spoke a few times to the fellers behind them guns, but no one answered and no one laughed at Hume. An’ I swear none of them guns’ve moved a fraction since we climbed out of the coach.”
“Wh-what’re you—sayin’?” stammered the driver.
The drummer didn’t answer. He swallowed, squared his narrow shoulders, then walked swiftly to the brush, pushed into it and grabbed the barrel of a protruding rifle.
The others started to press back against the stage, but nothing happened.
The drummer abruptly flung the rifle at the feet of the others, his mouth curling as he walked towards them.
“That’s the back-up. Not six men with rifles. Just six dummy rifles restin’ on the bushes. He was alone all the goddamn time.”
Chapter Two – Recall
It had been a long trail but Clay Nash figured he must be nearing the end of it.