Clay Nash 13

by Brett Waring

  Two months he had been working out of Texas and Missouri, trying to trace stolen gold that had been taken from an express car on the Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad and for which Wells Fargo had been responsible.

  At first it had seemed to be an easy assignment when Hume, as chief of detectives, had called Nash, his top operative, into his Denver office.

  “Looks like the robbers bit off more than they can chew this time,” Hume had told him. “They held up the train carrying new gold coins from the Denver Mint. Twenty-thousand dollars. Likely they’re congratulatin’ themselves and figurin’ on having a high time of it. But that money’s a heap hotter than they know. It’s a new design and those are the first coins minted from it. Some are a special batch called proofs, minted especially for collectors. You never see ’em in circulation, though I guess they would be legal tender. It’s just that they’re struck from special dies and they’re of such a high quality that collectors buy ’em at a premium price.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, face value of the coins are five, ten and twenty dollars. The proofs are sold at considerably more than this. Say at seven-fifty, fifteen and twenty-five dollars each. There are five hundred proofs among the lot stolen. They try to spend ’em and we’ll be able to pinpoint where they are right off. Ought to be an easy enough job to get onto these hombres, ’cause you can bet that gold’ll be burnin’ holes in their pockets.”

  That’s what he and Hume had thought at the time.

  The first coin had turned up in Hays City, Kansas, only two weeks after the robbery. Nash had made his way there and by that time the man who had passed the coin had been killed in a gunfight with the local marshal. It was another two weeks before word came in that three more coins, one of them a proof had been passed in a whorehouse in Wichita.

  Nash jumped a train immediately and ran his man to ground. He was a known outlaw and when he spotted Nash he went for his gun. In the shootout that followed, Nash nailed his man and the dying outlaw had muttered only one word, “Gamble.” Clay Nash hadn’t known what it meant.

  He tried to backtrack and, through the whorehouse, got a lead on the other two men who had been with the dead man. But he lost track of them and though he had tried all contacts and wandered from town to town for over a month, there had been no sign of the men and no coins had been passed.

  By that time, Nash figured they had realized that the coins were too distinctive and had begun melting them down for the gold content. It was a commodity that served as well as currency at that time and in that part of the country.

  There was a town called simply, the Junction, on the edge of a range of hills known as the Scalplocks where gold had been discovered twenty-seven years earlier. The town had boomed on gold for ten years when it had abruptly petered out. The community turned to the manufacture of wooden wheels for paddle steamers and saved the Junction from becoming just another ghost town.

  But occasionally, men still found the odd nugget in the Scalplocks and used it to pay for their wants in town. Gold, in all its forms, was always acceptable to merchants and bankers.

  Word reached Nash that there could be another strike on the Scalplocks. Gold nuggets seemed to be turning up in many parts of the Junction: at saloons, stores, barbershops, banks. Men were paying for what they wanted with the gold, and taking away change in coins or banknotes. The men refused to say where the gold was coming from.

  Then a banker began buying as much gold as he could: he had had a nugget tested and learned that it was almost pure.

  However, there were traces of copper and nickle—in quantities used in coins of the day.

  It meant that the ‘nuggets’ being passed around town weren’t being worked in the Scalplocks at all. They were being cast from melted-down coins. The quantities of the alloy metals soon pinpointed the coins as being those that had been stolen from the Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad express van.

  As soon as word reached Nash he went to the Junction and managed to corner one of the men who was still in town, getting drunk on the last of his gold. He was one of the lesser gang members and, in his fuddled state, didn’t take a lot of persuasion to talk about the robbery.

  Yes, they had figured it was too dangerous trying to pass the new coins, so the leader, an outlaw called Maynard, had figured the ploy of melting the gold down and casting it into nuggets.

  “Who—or what—is ‘Gamble’?” Nash asked.

  The man had shaken his head at first but after a mite more questioning admitted to Nash that Maynard had figured that one of the best places to get rid of the coins was across the gambling tables.

  Saloons were the obvious choice but sometimes the coins were spotted. So Maynard had figured the next best place to get rid of the rest was on the riverboats. He and a couple of his men aimed to ride the boats up and down the Mississippi, passing the coins, having a high time, transferring from boat to boat at frequent intervals, and passing through four or five States.

  That way they could have a high time and get rid of the money safely.

  It was a good idea, because Wells Fargo hadn’t been making a check on the riverboats.

  However, after the company began offering a substantial reward for any information leading to the conviction of the robbers, the reports came flooding in.

  A lot that were chased down proved to be false, but some were genuine. Finally, the trail led Nash to the riverboats.

  He headed into Saginaw Bend, Arkansas, to send a telegraph to Jim Hume to request assistance. He figured if he could get three more agents, preferably more, working with him, they could cover a good number of the hundreds of gambling boats that plied the Mississippi. They would only be able to make one or two trips apiece and then move on, but it oughtn’t to be hard to get a lead on high-rolling curly-wolves who paid for their pleasures in gold coins ...

  That was the way he had it figured when he walked into the Saginaw Bend telegraph shack and wrote out his wire to Jim Hume, Denver Office, Wells Fargo and Company.

  “I’ll wait at the Pink Garter for a reply,” Nash told the aged operator. “See that I get it soon as one comes in, pop.”

  He slid a dollar across the counter to the oldster who said, “Sure thing, Mr. Nash. You can depend on me.”

  Nash left, ate a meal at a cafe and booked into a room at the Pink Garter Saloon. He ordered hot water and a tub sent up and was covered in lather when there was a rap on the door. He recognized the voice of the old telegraph operator.

  “Come on in, pop,” called Nash. “That was kinda quick. Guess Hume must’ve had some men handy.”

  The oldster shuffled across, sniffing. His hands shook a little as he held out the folded, dog-eared yellow message form.

  “Read it out,” Nash said. “I’m all wet.”

  The oldster looked into Nash’s penetrating gray eyes and cleared his throat.

  “I don’t need to look at the message again, Mr. Nash.”

  “Okay. Fine. Just tell me what it says,” Nash said a mite impatiently.

  “It says that a hombre named Winters will be comin’ to replace you an’ ...”

  “Replace me?” Nash cut in, sitting up straight in the cramped hipbath. “What the hell’s he mean ‘replace’ me? I asked for men to help me.”

  “Well, that ain’t all the message, Mr. Nash ...”

  Clay frowned and gestured for the oldster to continue.

  “Rest of it says that Jim Hume’s been shot durin’ a hold-up. An’ he’s in a critical condition in St. Louis infirmary. You’re to get up to St. Louis right away and take over the assignment of findin’ his killer.”

  Nash froze then asked, softly, “When did it happen?”

  “Wire says five days ago. They been tryin’ to run you down. Thought you were up in Nebraska.”

  Nash nodded, swearing silently to himself behind his deadpan features. He had been on the move, too quickly for messages to catch up with him.

  It sounded serious for Hume
; and the would-be killer had a five-day start.

  But Nash knew it didn’t really matter. Wells Fargo would never let up. And neither would he.

  He would track the man down and nail him if it took the rest of his life. Jim Hume meant that much to him.

  The St. Louis office of Wells Fargo and Company was on Gerrard Street in a red brick building with loading platforms around to the side, jutting out into Sheridan Lane. It was a double-storied building with the passenger and freight depot on the first floor, and offices and manager’s quarters upstairs. Nash found Walter Garth awaiting him in the manager’s office.

  Garth had been the man responsible for Nash joining Wells Fargo some years earlier when the man had owned an independent stage line in Nash’s native Texas. They had found that they were fighting a common enemy, a land grabber who had forced Nash off his property and left him for dead in a desert and who had then refused the stage line right-of-way. By the time it was all sorted out and the man was dead, Garth had decided to sell out to Wells Fargo, though he had remained with the company as a director and senior officer while he devoted his spare time to writing a History of Transportation in the United States.

  It was very rare for him to appear in the field in any official capacity.

  He was thinner, older, but seemed to have just as much spring in his step and strength in his grip as he came across the office and shook hands with Nash.

  “Good to see you, Clay. Damn good.”

  Nash nodded. “Likewise, Walt. Wasn’t expectin’ you.”

  Garth nodded, sitting behind his desk and waving Nash to a chair.

  “Head office figured this was important enough to get away from my desk for a while. As no doubt you’ll agree, Clay.”

  Nash nodded, his face grim. “I called in at the infirmary. Seems Jim’s still alive but they don’t give him much of a chance of making it all the way.”

  Garth shook his head. “No. Bullet went too close to his heart. Miracle that it missed but he’d been shot in the left arm, too, and he’d lost a lot of blood by the time they got him to Victoria Flats. The local sawbones couldn’t do much more than bandage the wounds. Then he had to stand the long, rough ride here. They thought he was dead when they got him to the infirmary, but he’s incredibly tough. He fought back but he’s losing ground, I’m afraid.”

  Garth opened a drawer in the desk and brought out a Manila folder, handing it to Nash.

  “There’s a full report, Clay, It’s brand new. We’ve been interrogating—and I mean interrogating—the passengers, and that lousy coward of a driver right up until last night. I don’t think there’s one more detail that they could tell us now. We’ve wrung everything possible from them. Take your time and study it ... I’ll have some coffee and grub sent up.”

  An hour later, Nash drained a cup of coffee, pushed away the tray with the remains of a meal on it and put down the folder. His face was grim.

  “Fake rifles. That was Black Bart’s trick,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Garth. “He tried it many times, then it became too well known. Hasn’t been used for years now, I guess, but someone’s got a long memory.”

  “Pretty ruthless sort of hombre. Shot the guard smack through the head without a chance. Can’t really blame the driver for throwin’ in his hand, I guess.”

  Garth’s face was tight. “The company pays him to drive and protect its property. He failed. He’s out of a job and we’ll see he never works for any other stage line. We expect more loyalty than that from our employees, Clay.”

  “Sure. But I’d like to have a word with him. Know where he is?”

  “Afraid not. Ask one of the other drivers. They likely know the places he usually hangs out ... What did you think of the rest of it?”

  “Well, the passengers all describe him pretty much the same; they figure by his voice he was under thirty, weight about one-eighty, height six feet or slightly under. No rings or anything on his hands, but two of ’em mentioned the right hand had scarred knuckles, so I’d say he’s a bit of a scrapper. Half boots were ordinary and he wasn’t wearin’ spurs. That drummer recognized the rifle as a Winchester ’76 ... Could add up over-all, though taken separately, they don’t seem to mean much.”

  “Was hoping you’d get more out of it than that, Clay,” Garth said, sounding disappointed. “I mean, you been working with Jim Hume for years now. How about the way he operated? Don’t it tell you anything?”

  “Only that he’s read up on Black Bart’s methods. Apart from the wooden guns, there’s nothin’ else significant about the way he acted. Over the robbery itself, I mean.”

  “Oh? There’s something else, then?”

  Nash’s face was grim. “The way he acted with Jim. Obviously he knew him, and had an old score to settle. Wasn’t just content to shoot him, he had to humiliate him, too. Rob him of his personal belongings, prod him about the hold-up, makin’ him strip down to his underwear first, then to his hide. Someone who hates his guts did that, Walt. Someone with a pretty big score to settle.”

  “Yes, I agree, Clay. I’ve men working on the files now, pulling out everything on anyone who might have reason to want Hume dead.”

  Nash whistled. “Goin’ to take a while. He’s convicted a lot of hombres and he’s seen a lot of others hung. He’s not the most popular man in the territory.”

  “Well, that killer has to be among ’em. It’s your job to find him. It’s an open-ended assignment, Clay. You take as long as you want. Ask for all the help you need and you’ll get it, whether it’s manpower or money or equipment or whatever. We want all stops out on this and we want that man nailed, quick as possible.”

  “Be my pleasure,” Nash told him tightly. “I just wish there was more to start with.”

  “Where do you aim to start, anyway?”

  Nash opened the folder again, stood up and crossed to the large scale map on the wall.

  “The hold-up spot ...” He peered closely at the map. “I’ll need a larger-scale map of the area, Walt.”

  ‘I’ll have it sent to your room within the hour, Clay. Anything else you want?”

  “Yeah. A copy of every item that was stolen. I need to locate that driver and as many of the passengers as I can. Guess they’re all down Victoria Flats way ...?”

  “Most are. The widow came back to St. Louis. She figures the frontier’s too tough for her. She’s stayin’ with kinfolk in the south part of town. I can get the address for you.”

  “Fine. Guess you had someone look over the actual hold-up site for tracks?”

  “Reed Mitchell, our best tracker. Took Apache Jim with him. The Indian lost the trail less than five miles from the area. Bandit rode up a stream and just never seemed to come out on either bank.”

  Nash frowned and digested the information.

  “I’ll take a look at the place, I guess, after I see the widow. Be obliged, Walt, if you’d alert all our depots and way stations that I might be callin’ ’em at any time for help. And I’d appreciate it if you could keep me informed about Jim’s condition.”

  “You have my word on it, Clay ... You look mighty weary. You going to rest up a spell?”

  Nash stood, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. “Nope. I’ll see the widow and get started. The sooner I can nail the bastard who shot Jim the better.”

  Garth agreed and shook hands with the tall, grim-faced agent who turned and walked purposefully out of the office.

  Chapter Three – The Right Trail

  The Indian tracker, Apache Jim, showed Nash the stream where he had lost the trail of the bandit.

  It was several miles from the scene of the hold-up and the stream was surprisingly deep and swift-flowing, though not very wide. The Apache had searched several miles up and down the waterway without success. He searched again with Nash but there were no tracks that indicated the bandit had come out onto the bank.

  The Indian was required for another tracking job and, after he had left, Nash pulled out his large-scale map of t
he country and studied it. Upstream, there was rugged country for a spell and then came a bend that swung the watercourse through the tolerably large town of Cavendish. Downstream, lay more hospitable country for twenty miles leading to Victoria Flats. Nash played a hunch, figuring the outlaw would go downstream.

  From what he had seen of the killer, he felt he would have gall enough to be in Victoria Flats before the stage arrived. Something told him the man he was after would get some kind of queer kick out of being there in time to watch the stage enter the town—carrying the body of Jim Hume.

  As it was, the man would probably be enjoying the news that Hume was suffering and very close to death.

  Nash scoured every inch of the banks and, the next day, just before noon, was rewarded. He had discovered why there had been no tracks showing on either bank of the stream. The man had had a raft built and waiting, likely anchored mid-stream in some brush-clad stretch. Then he had simply had his mount step onto the logs, cast-off, and poled away downstream, coming out just above a set of rapids.

  He found the remains of the raft scattered among the rapids. Nash knew he was dealing with a smart hombre, and he gathered as much of the raft together as possible and tried to re-assemble it on the bank. The logs had been sawn, not cut with an axe. The cross-pieces had been nailed through precise dovetail joints first before being expertly bound with new, cotton-twist rope that had just been introduced in the western stores. The rocks of the rapids had broken up the raft, but the killer had probably allowed that to happen because he had finished with the craft.

  Nash figured the man he wanted knew something about carpentry tools, and it set him thinking and he pushed on down to Victoria Flats, arriving just before sundown.

  There were three general stores in town but only one was open. Nash made enquiries about timber that might have been used in the construction of the raft and also asked about recent purchases of saws, hammers, nails, chisels and the new-fangled rope. The storekeeper was willing enough to talk but had no information that Nash could use.