Clay Nash 13

by Brett Waring

  “You’re loco,” Nash said quietly. “Forget the past. Don’t involve your kid in it. You reckon you don’t aim to do anythin’ about it, so why louse up his chances of a normal life?”

  “Shove it, Nash. I’ll bring up my kid any way I like. It’ll set easy with me knowin’ I got kinfolk who’ll hate the names of Hume and Nash long after I’m dead.”

  Nash slowly shook his head and stood to whistle his horse. He started to saddle-up.

  “Hey!” Cole cried out in alarm. “You ain’t leavin’ me?”

  “You ain’t badly hit. You can get back to your ranch all right come daylight.”

  “By hell, I will see young Ben hates your guts, Nash. I sure as hell will.”

  Nash said nothing, but broke camp swiftly, cast one more glance at Cole and then turned and rode away.

  It was only after he had travelled a few miles that he realized Cole might have helped him after all, without realizing it.

  Chapter Five – To the Big River

  “It’d been slipped under the door of the office,” Walter Garth said, nodding to the yellow telegraph form that Nash was reading. “Fools didn’t figure it was urgent enough to come and bring it to my hotel room. Found it there the morning after you’d left …”

  Nash snapped his head up. “Well, sounds like Chet’s onto something. That brooch sure sounds like the one that widow described to me as bein’ stolen by the bandit.”

  “And maybe this seaman theory of yours might hold water better now that we’re being led towards the riverboats,” Garth answered. “I’ve sent a wire to Winters to follow through and get more information back to us, but, of course, there’s been nothing yet.”

  “I’d better get out there. But this time I’m so tuckered, I’ll just have to hit the hay for a good night’s sleep before I start.”

  “I agree. Got time to tell me this idea of yours that Cole sparked off?”

  Nash stifled a yawn and sipped the brandy Garth had poured for him.

  “Yeah. Well, I’d decided it wasn’t him or Denman. But Cole came after me because he figured I’ve busted up his marriage by lettin’ his wife know he had a prison background. He was plenty riled and he says he’ll bring up his son to hate me ...”

  Garth waited as Nash paused, frowning.

  “You don’t see it, Walt?”

  “Damned if I do. What’s so unusual about that? Plenty of these outlaws have their kin hatin’ on their behalf for years ...”

  Nash nodded. “Sure. That’s the very point I’m making. Kin. We’ve been looking for men that Hume sent up or wounded in shoot-outs and so on. But what about kin of these folk, or kin of the ones who were hanged or killed by Hume in gun battles?”

  Garth’s mouth opened and he nodded slowly. “Sure ... I get it. We’ve been through the list looking for men who actually knew Hume. But it could well be the son or some other relative of men who died because of Hume.”

  “That’s it. And what he said to you in the infirmary could make sense now ... If you take it that he said ‘kin’ instead of ‘can’ or ‘c’n’ as you thought he did ... he was likely trying to tell you to tell me that it wasn’t an old enemy, but the kin of one. He must’ve known that even though the hombre was masked. Maybe his age told him, for it’s a long time since Jim’s actually put someone away ...”

  Garth nodded again. “Then we’ve got to go back through the whole damn list and start all over again. Working our way down through the ones who’re dead ...”

  “Looks that way, Walt. Goin’ to be a big job, but you’ve got the men to swing onto it. Meantime, I’m hittin’ the hay, and then, tomorrow, I’m headed out to the big river.”

  The riverboat churned upstream on the St. Louis run, sparks and small flames glowing red in the night from the twin smokestacks.

  As was normal, the speed had been reduced for night travel, but that was the only thing on board that had been cut in any way. The revelry, gambling, fighting and general celebrating were all going full swing, more intensely than during the daylight hours if anything. The big paddle wheeler was on the verge of making a record passage, and the cargo stacked on the open decks fore and aft would be delivered to its destination a full thirty hours ahead of schedule.

  There was fierce competition between the big boats that plied the Mississippi, both with cargo and entertainment. The company that could speed goods through the muddy waters, up or downstream at the fastest rate, was the one that prospered. If that same company could provide top entertainment by way of gaming tables, available girls, stage shows and general round-the-clock amusement, it became King of the Big River.

  There were thirty-three different riverboat companies operating, and the huge waterway was often crowded with giant paddle wheelers, vying for berth space, or racing each other to narrow channels. Many a steamer was left stranded by a rival boat that managed to nose into a deep water channel just a shade faster than its opponent.

  Sometimes there was open warfare, on shore as well as on the river. Some boats sank mysteriously at their moorings, others were shattered by boiler explosions that ripped the bottoms out in mid river. But despite all the hassles, the riverboats were an efficient and fast means of travel and for delivering goods up and down the Mississippi. Merchandise could be off-loaded at river ports and then shipped overland to nearby towns, often saving days, or weeks.

  Wells Fargo and Company had been recently looking at the possibility of buying into the riverboat trade and had shares in one company, though not a controlling interest.

  Chet Winters, leaning on the port rail on the top deck as the paddle wheeler churned on through the night, thought it would be ironic and the height of gall for road agents to try to get rid of their loot on board a Wells Fargo riverboat. There were men who would attempt it, he figured, getting a kick out of the added risk.

  He flicked his cigar into the dark waters and straightened, looking up at the brilliant stars and the spurting smokestacks above him. Soon they would be arriving at St. Louis and, by a piece of luck, Spar was still on board. Winters hadn’t expected he would be. That was why he had sent Garth the wire. He had figured he would leave the boat at one of the lower river ports and keep track of Spar wherever the man went. It had been an added bonus the big man staying aboard all the way to St. Louis.

  Winters’ only regret was that he hadn’t had a chance to send another wire so that a Wells Fargo agent could be waiting to lend a hand.

  He figured he could get the drop on Spar, anyway. Of course, the big man might not be getting off at St. Louis. There were other up-river ports for the boat to visit yet before it had to turn around and start back downstream. But Spar was going to get off there whether he liked it or not: with the Wells Fargo offices so handy it would be stupid to let him continue his journey.

  Winters strolled along the deserted deck. Sounds of gaiety drifted up from the main deck below. He saw a flash of movement and a suggestion of color among the stacked cargo in the bows, and smiled faintly. Likely a pair of lovers seeking a quiet corner.

  Then someone hurtled out of the deep shadow of the deckhouse just ahead and came at him, light glinting from a steel blade. Winters stopped, and quickly jumped backwards and to one side. The knife blade slit his coat and hissed past to thud into the deckhouse wall. He chopped down at the hand that held the weapon but a big fist exploded in his face and knocked him backwards.

  Winters reached for his gun and had it halfway free of leather when the assailant’s big body slammed into him, crushing him back against the deckhouse, driving the breath from him. Steel fingers clamped around his wrist and prevented him bringing up the gun. He tried to notch back the hammer: if he could get off a shot, he thought, it might drive the man away, for it seemed his attacker wanted to operate silently.

  An elbow hooked into his ribs and he sagged, gasping. He butted his head into an iron-hard midriff, snapped it up and felt his skull crack beneath a jutting jaw. The man grunted and his grip relaxed some. Winters broke free and st
arted to bring up his gun the rest of the way.

  There was a glitter of steel and he stumbled as he lunged to one side. A boot slammed into his belly and he fell to one knee, gagging, the gun clattering to the deck. He groped for it instinctively, then he saw a big boot kick it over the side into the river. Desperately, he reached for his knife at the back of his belt, knowing he was too late, too slow ...

  The scream started deep within him but it was cut off before it was properly born. Six inches of cold steel drove violently through his heart and he convulsed. A knee pinned him against the deckhouse, refusing to allow him to fall. The blade drove home again and a third time.

  Only then did the assassin step back and allow Winters’ shuddering corpse to sprawl on the deck. The killer looked around quickly and a burst of flame and sparks from the smokestack above briefly illuminated the deck, showing the craggy features of Spar.

  He knelt swiftly and searched the Wells Fargo man.

  He transferred papers and money from the dead man’s pockets to his own but then sat back on his hams and cursed. Obviously, he hadn’t found what he wanted. He paused long enough to glance around and peer over the rail to the deck below. All seemed clear. Muttering, he went through Winters’ pockets again, but they were empty.

  Mouth pulled tight, he grabbed the man around the chest, preparing to heave him up onto the rail. Spar checked the movement. His hands had felt something hard beneath the bloody shirt. He propped the dead agent against the deckhouse and ripped open the shirtfront, ignoring the blood oozing from the wounds.

  Spar’s teeth flashed in a smile of triumph. The brooch was slung about Winters’ neck on a leather thong.

  He jerked it free and glanced at it briefly before placing it in his pocket. Then he stood and draped Winters’ body over the rail. Spar made sure the decks were deserted and waited. He knew the riverboat’s hooter would blast in a few seconds as they came into a bend.

  When a jet of steam blasted into the night and the hooter screamed its warning to any other boat approaching, Spar grabbed Winters’ ankles and tipped him over the side.

  There was a brief splash that was drowned out by the noise on the boat and the eternal churning of the revolving stern wheel.

  The body was swiftly carried away downstream and had floated well beyond the stern by the time that Spar returned to the bright, noisy gambling room, a crooked smile of satisfaction on his sweating face.

  The Red Light District of St. Louis backed onto the river. It was a collection of mean streets lined with houses of pleasure, from gambling to whores to just plain booze. Almost anything could be bought—or sold—in The District.

  It was a place of curiosity to the St. Louis’ Society and often parties of young blades and laughing, squealing women clattered through the streets in hired surreys or buggies on ‘slumming’ expeditions as a climax to an evening out. They were tolerated in most sections of The District, though there were some areas, near the wharves and docks, where they didn’t venture—unless they were foolhardy or stupid.

  The area around the docks and along the riverfront was the toughest in St. Louis. There were saloons and whorehouses by the dozen where nightly brawls and killings were common.

  The meanest dump in the area was a saloon-cum-whorehouse known as the Sinkhole. River men as well as tough trail drivers frequented its shadowy halls and bars and it wasn’t uncommon for a body a night to be dumped into the murky waters of the nearby river.

  The Sinkhole, naturally, had a crew of the toughest bouncers west of Abilene and the owner, one Silky Magee, was one of the deadliest men in the territory. His eyes were small and glittery like a reptile’s and he moved with sinewy grace that enhanced the comparison. He spoke softly and rarely raised his voice for any reason.

  That night, he stood on the first landing of the scarred and rickety stairs that led to the top floor, surveying the clientele through the thick haze of smoke in the big bar below. There were two fights starting but they were swiftly put down by a pair of his bouncers wielding sawn-off pickaxe handles. The unconscious patrons were flung into a back alley where human vultures waited to pick over the pockets while the men were still unconscious. Some awoke, completely naked, stripped of everything they owned. One cowboy who had sported a gold tooth had it knocked from his bleeding gums. Another had a finger chopped off so the thief could remove a tight gold ring.

  Magee ran an expert eye over the gambling tables, watching his house men. He knew they were cheats: that was why he had hired them. The girls were scattered around the room and some were staggering past him to the private rooms above, drunken customers clinging to their arms and waists.

  But there was one girl, a ragged-haired blonde with a haunted face and dark circles under her eyes, who was resisting the advances of a lurching cowpoke and a riverboat man at the same time. She tried to fend them off as they staggered into one another, pawing at her, ripping the bodice of her dress.

  Silky Magee whistled through his teeth and, when a bouncer near the end of the bar glanced up, he flicked a stiffened index finger in the girl’s direction. The bouncer frowned and Magee leaned over the railings.

  “My office,” he breathed. “And get rid of the bums.”

  “Right, boss.”

  The bouncer hefted his axe handle and shoved and thrust his way through the packed men towards the blonde girl and her drunken admirers. He came up behind the cowboy and the sailor, gripped their shoulders and smashed their heads together resoundingly. They staggered and almost fell, but the bouncer kept his grip on them, supporting them effortlessly.

  “Boss wants you upstairs, Frenchy,” he growled at the girl.

  She snapped her head up as she straightened her torn bodice, flicking pale green eyes towards the landing where Magee was watching with his snake eyes. She seemed to pale.

  “What—what for?” she asked the bouncer.

  “How the hell do I know? But you better get movin’. You know he don’t like to be kept waitin’.”

  He dragged the stunned drunks towards the alley door and Frenchy tugged a torn section of bodice into place as she saw Magee going back up the stairs to the top floor. Feeling a knot forming in her belly, she glanced around her a little wildly, not really knowing what she was looking for. Then she swallowed and tilted her chin a mite as she started back through the crowd towards the stairs.

  Magee never had anything to do with the girls who worked for him. The only time he spoke with them was usually to admonish or discipline them in some way. And Magee’s ‘discipline’ often left a girl so scarred that she could never work again.

  As she came to the foot of the stairs, she glanced towards the side door. For a wild moment, she thought of making a run for it. Then she remembered the human vultures waiting out there. Magee had ordered one of the girls thrown out into that alley once: Frenchy would never forget the sight of that girl the next morning in the early light as her body was pulled from beneath a pile of garbage. She shuddered: she would rather face Magee than the alley.

  She went up the stairs swiftly, knowing the minutes were dragging by and that he would be building up his anger the longer she took to reach his secluded office.

  A gun hung bouncer guarded the outer entrance door. He held it open for Frenchy as she hurriedly approached, her face tense, and her hands clutching the torn bodice of her dress.

  Magee stood in the doorway of his office and she slowed, almost hypnotized by his beady eyes. She brushed past him without a word and he closed the door after her, walked around his desk and dropped into his chair, steepling his fingers as he placed his elbows on the desk. He stared bleakly at the girl.

  “You’re through here,” he breathed. Frenchy’s heart hammered faster.

  “Wh-wh-why, Mr. Magee?” she whined. “Wh-what’ve I done?”

  He stood and reached across the desk, grabbed one of her hands, then backhanded her across the face. She cowered, flinching, expecting more blows. But he didn’t hit her again. Instead, he pulled her
towards him, then wrenched the gold and sapphire ring from her finger, tearing the knuckle and making it bleed. She gasped as he held up the ring.

  “You were told not to wear this,” he breathed, his voice calm and terrifyingly quiet. “Chips said for you to keep it and turn it into hard cash a few months from now, a long ways from here. But you had to show it off, didn’t you? First to the other gals, then to anyone who had eyes in their head. You been flashing it around the whole goddamn saloon.”

  Frenchy cowered as his fingers flicked her across the mouth. She tasted blood.

  “Chips’ll carve your heart, when he finds out, you stupid bitch. You’ve endangered the whole goddamn system.”

  “But ... but he never said not to wear it,” she whined. “He just said to be careful with it.”

  Magee hit her again, casually. “You were just too stupid to listen proper. He said be careful not to show it around here. But you were too busy making cow’s eyes at him, dreaming of orange blossoms and a lousy wedding to take notice.”

  She bit her lower lip, shaking her head violently, afraid of what he might have planned for her.

  “I—I didn’t mean to ...”

  “Shut up. You did it. You could get us all nailed. You’re all through here.”

  “What’re you going to ... do with me?”

  Magee allowed a small smile to twist his thin lips.

  “Oh, not much. I’m just goin’ to ship you out on the riverboat when it arrives. The Jewel.”

  Frenchy frowned. It didn’t seem like much of a punishment to her; it sure wasn’t in keeping with Silky Magee’s reputation. There had to be more to it than that. He was holding something back. He had to be ...

  “You’ll work the boat,” the saloon owner continued. “As a percentage gal and whore. Just like here.”

  She waited, but he didn’t say any more. The smile still twisted his mean mouth. Her heart was thudding as she gazed at him in terror.