Clay Nash 13

by Brett Waring

  He flung her to the floor and stood over her, his boot poised directly above her terrified, bloody face. She reached up and grabbed his boot.

  “No, Chips,” she sobbed. “Don’t. Please.”

  His lips twisted and he pressed down, lowering his boot so that it pushed her nose almost flat, the heel resting on her mouth. One downthrust and he would ruin her face forever.

  Frenchy knew it and tried to speak, but the leather heel squashed her lips against her teeth. She writhed and twisted as he slowly increased the pressure and finally managed to twist her head to one side. But he kept the boot resting on her head, pinning her to the floor.

  “You stupid bitch,” he snarled. “You could’ve ruined everything wearin’ that goddamn ring.”

  She sobbed, her body shaking. “I only did it ’cause you gave it to me, Chips. I ... missed you. I wanted somethin’ to remind me of you. I didn’t think it’d matter. An’... an’ you did say it’d be my weddin’ ring later when we ...”

  “No more brains than a lousy flea,” he growled. But he removed his boot from her head, reached down and yanked her to her feet. He shook her for several seconds, then flung her onto the bunk.

  Chips straightened his vest and coat then pushed his hair back from his eyes. He stared coldly at her.

  “I ought to drop you into that paddlewheel,” he breathed.

  “Chips. No harm come of it. It’s ... over now. I won’t do nothin’ stupid like that again. I promise.” She sat up slowly, tentatively, testing him, half expecting him to lunge forward and slap her face once more. But he took out a leather cigarillo case, selected one and lit it. She looked at him warily: she knew about burning cigars. Deadlight had favored them. He saw her flinch and smiled crookedly.

  “Yeah. Silky told me about Deadlight givin you a lesson or two. I reckon maybe that’ll do. For now.”

  Frenchy swallowed. She was eager to get on the right side of him. She stood up and walked slowly to the wall mirror, looking at the red weals on her face and the fresh splits in her lips. She dabbed at the bleeding cuts with a handkerchief and then began to fix her straggling hair with shaking hands.

  “Chips ... I got some news that you might be interested in.” He went on smoking, not even looking at her. He was watching the wide river slide by the window.

  “There’s a feller on board. Calls himself Clayton. But I figure he’s a Wells Fargo man.”

  Chips spun towards her. Frenchy went on quickly while she had the advantage and told him about her suspicions.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the same hombre who shot up the place in Dallas ... I been tryin’ to remember his name but can’t quite put my tongue to it.”

  Chips’ face was grim. “Well, I dunno why Wells Fargo should be on the Jewel, or any riverboat, come to that,” he said, thinking aloud. “If they are, it might be somethin’ else. There’s nothin’ that could’ve led ’em here.” His voice and face hardened as he flicked his gaze to her. “Unless someone seen you wearin’ that ring in The Sinkhole and trailed you here.”

  She was swift to deny the possibility. She licked at her lips, knowing she had to stop his suspicions growing. “Chips, it weren’t me. If anyone it was Spar.”

  “What?”

  “He ... was losin’ at cards. He traded that brooch for forty-five dollars. Had to kill the man afterward to get it back when he realized what he’d done. I heard in St. Louis that a Wells Fargo man’s body had been washed up downstream. It could’ve been the same man ...”

  Chips gasped in frustration and anger as he began pacing around the cabin. “Goddamn it. I’m surrounded by a pack of fools. Me and the cap’n spend months settin’ up this deal, an’ what happens? You an’ Spar act dumb an’ bring the law down on our necks.”

  “Well, we ain’t sure, Chips,” she said, trying desperately to think of something that would take his attention off her again. Suddenly, her face lit up. “Chips. I got it. That Clayton feller. His real name’s Clay Nash. It just come to me ...”

  Her words trailed off as she saw Chips pale. He froze and held the smoldering cigarillo halfway to his mouth.

  “Nash,” he breathed. “Judas Priest! He’s real trouble. They wouldn’t send him on just any kind of assignment. ’Fact, I heard Garth had pulled him off another chore so’s he could work on the Hume case ... An’ if that’s what he’s doin’, an’ he’s here, aboard this lousy riverboat, then he must know somethin’. But whatever it is, it won’t be doin’ me much good.”

  Frenchy put a hand on his arm and looked anxiously into his face.

  “I’m sure it’s him, Chips. Does it ... does it kind of make up for me flashin’ that ring around ...? Huh? I done good by spottin’ him, didn’t I?”

  Chips sighed and nodded absently. She snuggled against him and he slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  But it was obvious his mind was elsewhere. His hand shook as he lifted the cigarillo towards his lips.

  Spar was four-flushing the cards.

  Nash had spotted him earlier but the man had gone back to straight dealing for several hands so he had not said anything.

  But Spar was starting again, slipping cards from the bottom of the deck ...

  Earlier, Nash had noticed that the man had called for a fresh ashtray, telling the others they could have his for communal use. He was given a small, polished metal one where he rested his cheroot. He had only taken three or four puffs from the cigar and hadn’t attempted to pick it up for some time.

  Nash saw what he was doing. He was using the polished flat edge of the ashtray to reflect the bottom card on the pack; When he dealt it to one of the players, he knew exactly what was in the man’s hands. He didn’t do it to every player, only selected ones.

  The players dropped out one by one and were replaced by other men eagerly waiting to get into a game. There was a line waiting at almost every card table.

  Then Spar started concentrating on Nash. It looked as though it was his turn to lose, but he didn’t aim to sit back and be cheated by the big man.

  However, he was confused when he won the next three hands.

  He frowned as he drew in the pot money amid the jibes and curses of the players who had lost.

  “Don’t tell me you’re back on your winnin’ streak again, Clayton,” Spar said.

  “Well, I guess that’s kind of up to you, ain’t it, Spar?” Nash retorted.

  The beefy man raised his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

  Nash gestured to the polished ashtray. “It depends on which cards you deal me. Off the bottom.”

  Instantly, all conversation around the table ceased as players turned their apprehensive gazes towards Nash.

  Spar’s face was set in stiff lines, and then he laughed. It was a short, forced sound as he shook his head.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all! I’ve heard fellers gripe if they lose. But it’s the first time I’ve heard any complaints about winnin “

  “It depends how a man wins,” Nash told him quietly. “I mean, I got no objection to rakin’ in the pot, but I been watchin’ you for quite a spell, Spar. You been slippin’ cards off the bottom of that deck ever since you called for the ashtray. It reflects the card as you flick it out. Three fellers quit because they lost with the cards you dealt ’em. I thought you’d marked me as the next sucker. But, for some reason, you’re lettin’ me win. If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon take my chances like these other gents here. Without any help or hindrance from you.”

  The other players began to murmur angrily, but Spar ignored them as his cold eyes drilled into Clay.

  “You’re headin’ right into danger talkin’ that way, Nas—er—Clayton,” snapped Spar.

  Nash tensed. So that was it. They knew who he was. It was a set-up. Likely Spar was merely softening him up by dealing him the winning hands. Then he would’ve really concentrated on giving him losing hands. Why, the son of a bitch might even have been making his four-flushing obvious so that Nash would speak up. Then he wo
uld have an excuse to go for his gun.

  Nash smiled thinly to himself. Well, he was onto it now. And he aimed to move into control: Spar wasn’t going to maneuver him into any position he didn’t want to be in ...

  “What kind of trouble you reckon I’m headed for, Spar? None of your makin’, I’d say.”

  The others became uneasy and began to scrape their chairs back.

  Spar showed his broken teeth. “You’re wrong, mister. It’ll be exactly of my makin’.” He spread his hands flat on the top of the table. “An’ callin’ a man a cheat, a four-flusher, is gun-talk.”

  “Not if I don’t want it to be,” Nash told him quietly.

  Spar flicked one eyebrow in amazement. Then he shrugged. “Well, ’course, if you want to be yeller and back down an’ apologize ... Mebbe I’ll be prepared to let it slide.”

  Nash was already shaking his head before the man had finished speaking. “Hell, no, I don’t aim to apologize. I reckon you’re a four-flushin’ lousy bastard and nothin’s goin’ to make me change my opinion.”

  Chairs crashed over as the other players leapt up and dived away from the table. Their abrupt actions startled the others in the room and they started to move away.

  They could all read the signs of trouble.

  Spar’s face was pale and taut as he hunched in his chair, his teeth gritted, and his hands tensed on the table edge.

  Suddenly, he ripped out a curse and his right hand streaked across his body and under the flap of his coat.

  Nash heaved the table forward and up. The edge slammed into Spar, pinning his arm against his chest, then carrying him backwards and out of his chair.

  He hit the floor with a thud as men scattered in all directions and the percentage girls began to scream. Then Nash heaved the table aside, and kicked the hideaway gun from the man’s hand as he slid it out of his shoulder holster. The small weapon spun into the crowd as Nash stomped on the man’s hand and drove his other boot into Spar’s side.

  The beefy man rolled across the floor, came up to hands and knees, and crouched.

  Suddenly, he lunged forward in a driving tackle, his big arms going out to encircle Nash’s hips. The Wells Fargo man stepped back and swung his boot into Spar’s face. The man stopped in his tracks, twisted sideways, then went down.

  Nash aimed a kick at him, but the beefy man rolled aside, bounded to his feet and steadied himself against the nearest card table.

  Nash grinned as he kicked at the leg of the table and spun it out from under Spar’s hand. The man stumbled again and with a roar charged in at Nash. He flung a fist but Nash jerked his head back, then slammed a fist into the side of Spar’s neck. The big man jerked but didn’t give ground. He drove his knuckles into Nash’s midriff and sent him staggering back.

  Clay sprawled across a table then bounded to his feet, a little winded. He stopped dead as he prepared to thrust off the table and lunge at Spar. The man had a knife in his hand. It was a short, broad-bladed weapon with an ivory T-shaped handle: the Mississippi gambler’s legendary weapon.

  Nash leapt back, his arms wide as the blade hissed past his belly, missing by inches. He backed off, one hand groping out behind to feel his way. Spar bared his teeth and lunged in again, the blade driving for Nash’s ribs. It missed but slashed his coat, catching in the cloth.

  Nash swiftly spun away, ripping his arms out of the garment. Spar cursed savagely as he tried to shake the coat from his knife. But Nash grabbed at the garment and jerked. The motion pulled the knife from Spar’s startled grip and he snapped his head up just as Nash stepped in and drove an elbow towards his face. It crashed between Spar’s eyes and his legs folded, dropping him to his knees. Nash’s knee exploded to the point of his jaw and Spar flailed over backwards, falling flat on his back. He rolled once and then was still, his nose broken and squashed over to one side, streaming blood.

  Nash picked up the knife, shrugged into his coat, dusted himself down, then, with a nod towards the captain standing by one end of the bar, he walked onto the deck, leaving the door swinging behind him.

  As he made his way back towards his cabin, he heard the big gaming room coming to life with animated conversation.

  Nash was sluicing water into his face when there was a knock on his cabin door.

  He spun and whipped his Colt out of its holster at his hip. The hammer cocked back as he crossed the small room, turned the key in the lock, and stepped back.

  “Come in slow,” he ordered.

  It was Frenchy. She smiled nervously as she opened the door.

  “I ... it’s only me,” she stammered.

  Nash stepped past her and kicked the door closed as she turned, watching him warily.

  “I ... I heard you’d been in a fight. With that house man called Spar. He’s a helluva mess. Cap’n’s taping up his nose and he’s only got one good eye he can use. I ... I just wondered how you’d made out. And if you needed ... anything?”

  Nash stared at her a little longer, then lowered the gun hammer and put the Colt back into its holster. He smiled faintly.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for the thought, Frenchy. ’Scuse me while I put my shirt on again.”

  He stepped around her and she moved back against the small chest of drawers to one side of the door.

  “It was somethin’ to do with cards, I heard.”

  “That’s right,” Nash replied, buttoning his shirt and tucking in the tail. He turned to look at her. “Word travels fast. I didn’t see you in the gaming room.”

  “No. I was havin’ a ... break. The girl I share with told me.”

  Nash frowned at her words. Something stirred far back in his memory. He had a fleeting vision of a dingy room with a girl standing in one corner of it, afraid, wide-eyed and staring through a kind of a mist. And there was another girl, bleeding and sobbing on the bed. And a man ...

  But he couldn’t pin it down ...

  “You all right?” Frenchy asked.

  “Huh? Sure, I’m fine. A mite groggy, is all.”

  “Anythin’ I can do for you?” There was a veiled invitation in her words and in the half smile that lifted a corner of her mouth. The movement split the skin over one of the cuts and a small bead of blood oozed out. She winced as she licked it away with the tip of her pink tongue.

  “You been in trouble yourself, looks like,” Nash said. “You got some fresh bruises. And one side of your face is swollen. Mebbe there’s somethin’ I can do for you ...?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I’m all right. One of the ... customers ... got a little rough, that’s all. The cap’n’ll take care of it.” She moved sideways and grasped the door handle. “Well, if you’re sure you’re all right ...?”

  He nodded. “Thanks again for comin’.”

  She smiled. “See you after in the gamin’ room? Or mebbe my cabin?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows?”

  She nodded and went out swiftly. Nash frowned, staring at the door as it closed behind her. Damned funny gal, he thought. He didn’t figure he’d made that much of an impression on her that she would be so sympathetic. Just showed, a man could never tell about women.

  But he tried to call up that brief vision he had had of her in a smoke-filled room ... Hell, yeah. That was it, the haze was smoke. Gunsmoke. The girl on the bed had been bleeding from a bullet wound and the man had been sprawled dead on the floor. It began to come back to him. Dallas, Texas. A few years earlier.

  A girl called Honey and a wounded outlaw who had made a last ditch stand in a room above a saloon on Front Street. He recalled going in shooting, the man trying to nail him, bullets flying wild, the sob of the wounded girl ... and the other one who had escaped injury, cowering in a corner, pleading with him not to hurt her, saying she had had nothing to do with helping the dead man ...

  Her name had been Frenchy.

  There was little doubt in his mind that she had recognized him. Which likely explained why Spar had been trying to set him up. They wanted him dead.

 
; He took another jacket out of the closet and slipped into it. He wanted a closer look at that bearded man Frenchy had met on the gangplank at Beacon Point.

  He figured that there was likely a long, horse-face hidden behind those whiskers.

  It was just as he picked up his tobacco sack and papers from the top of the chest of drawers, that he realized the ivory-handled push-knife was missing.

  The captain looked up from taping the last piece of bandage around Spar’s head as his cabin door opened.

  “Why the hell don’t you knock?” he bawled, but straightened his face when he saw that it was the bearded Chips Rigby. “Oh, it’s you.”

  Rigby nodded but his eyes were fixed on the battered Spar. The big man blinked with his one good eye and adjusted the bandage that encircled his head. There were spots of blood already showing on the front over the nose area.

  “Bastard threw the table into me just as I got out my gun,” Spar said, his voice a little muffled by the bandages and his puffed, split lips. “Didn’t want gunplay, I guess. Started a fist fight. Tried to nail him with my knife but looked to me like he’d been in more than one knife-fight.”

  Rigby curled his lips. “Lookin’ at you right now, I’d say you were right. Judas! We set things up so’s he can catch your four-flushin’, accuse you, and give you an excuse to go for your gun—and you still foul-up, Spar.”

  The big man looked away uneasily. “Sorry, Chips, but it ain’t like them other times on the Down Easters we sailed together. There it was all close-in work an’ you know I’m best at that. There was too much space for him to dodge around in that big gamin’ room.”

  “This is twice you fouled-up now, Spar. First with the brooch, now with Nash.”

  “I ... I put things right with the brooch, Chips. I’ll finish Nash. I just need another chance an’ I’m sure lookin’ forward to it now, I can tell you.” He lightly touched a hand to his bandage. Rigby moved his gaze from Spar to the captain.

  “What you think, Cap’n?”