Clay Nash 20

by Brett Waring

  His ears ringing with the thunder of the shotgun, Nash heard muffled hoof beats as the man outside rode off.

  Suddenly the passage door burst open and the night deputy charged in, a lantern in one hand and a six-gun in the other, demanding to know what was happening. He aimed the gun at Nash.

  “Don’t try anythin’!” the deputy said nervously.

  “You loco?” Nash said. “Someone just tried to blow my head off!”

  The deputy held the lantern higher, letting the light wash around the cell. He frowned at Nash, who gestured at the barred window.

  “He stood on a horse and called my name. When I pulled myself up by the bars, he tried to blow my head off with a shotgun! Now he’s gettin’ away while you’re pussyfootin’ around here!”

  “My job’s to guard prisoners,” the deputy said, but he looked shaken.

  “Get somebody here,” Nash demanded.

  Twenty minutes later the sheriff, Jim Hume, two deputies and Captain Josh McAllister were in the passage outside the cell.

  “Seems you might’ve found out something that makes you a danger to whoever was behind that Pueblo River raid, Nash,” the army man said. “I want to know what it is.”

  Nash scowled. “I found out nothin’ except where Buck Tanner works. You already knew that much.”

  Hume looked from Nash to McAllister before saying, “Maybe whoever fired that shotgun just figures Clay is a danger.”

  “So he tries to gun down a man who’s about to hang?” McAllister scoffed. “Don’t be stupid, Hume.”

  “It’s not definite that anyone’s gonna hang,” the detective chief said. “You’re kind of jumpin’ the gun a mite there, aren’t you?”

  The captain held Hume’s gaze. “I don’t believe so. I have some strong evidence.” He turned to Nash, suddenly thoughtful. “It’s possible you know somethin’ that’s a danger to these people without you realizin’ it. I don’t think we’ll take any chances of someone tryin’ to kill him again, Sheriff. We’ll transfer him to the cells under the courthouse.”

  “Hell, they ain’t near as secure as these, Captain,” the lawman pointed out. “They’re just for holdin’ prisoners waitin’ to be called upstairs to court. A man like Nash could easily bust out.”

  “I’ll have two guards outside his door from now until he goes into the dock,” said the army man. He nodded. “Yeah, that’s the best way. All right, Sheriff, move him out and I’ll arrange for armed soldiers to stand guard. He’s not gonna escape that rope I’ve got waitin’ for him.”

  McAllister heeled around and walked off. Hume frowned and looked at the sheriff.

  “Need a hand, Milt?”

  The lawman scratched at an ear. “Tell you the truth, Jim, I’d be happier if you was nowheres around while the move’s takin’ place. I know how close you and Nash are.”

  “That’s in the past, Milt,” Hume said. “You know me. If he’s guilty of those murders—”

  “Go back to your hotel room, Jim,” the sheriff cut in. “Me and my deputies’ll manage. Lonnie, you escort Mr. Hume back to his room and see that he stays there, right? Sorry, Jim, but I can’t afford any slip-ups.”

  Hume curled a lip at the lawman. “Thanks for the show of trust!”

  He stomped out and Lonnie, the night deputy, hurried after him. The sheriff and the remaining deputy, a hard-eyed man named Chet, looked at Nash through the bars.

  “Get the keys,” the sheriff ordered. As Chet moved to obey, the sheriff stared hard at Nash. “You come quietly, hear? You try gettin’ funny an’ I swear I’ll blow your kneecap off. Savvy?”

  Nash raised his hands to show that he meant to go along quietly. He threw a nervous glance at the cell window.

  “The sooner we’re out of here and safe underground, the happier I’ll be, Sheriff. I feel like a walkin’ target right now.”

  “Put your hands through the bars while I get these cuffs on you,” growled the lawman.

  Chet came back with the keys, opened the cell door and pulled Nash roughly into the passage. Both lawmen had their six-guns at the ready. They prodded Nash into the dark street and, watching warily, marched him down Front Street and into Main, then across the small plaza in front of the courthouse. There was no sign of McAllister or his armed guards, but there was light showing in the windows of the lower floor of the building.

  Nash was pushed into an alley beside the courthouse. He walked along steadily, then twisted around as there was a dull thud and a muffled moan. He stumbled as Chet fell against him.

  The sheriff got out a startled “Hey!” before he too was clubbed to the ground. A dark shape knelt beside the sheriff and fumbled in his shirt pocket for the key to the handcuffs. The man straightened, tall against the lights of Main. He unlocked the cuffs and they fell from Nash’s wrists. The Wells Fargo man rubbed circulation back into his hands.

  “Hell, you were gettin’ me worried back there,” Nash said. “Thought you were kind of overdoin’ things a mite.”

  The tall man grinned. “Sounded good, though, eh?” chuckled Captain Joshua McAllister. “Thought we might as well use those three dead soldiers to advantage. We set things up back at the Big Springs office so it sounded and looked like you were disobeyin’ orders, but those three dead men and then me gettin’ you in the shadow of the hangman’s rope ought to just about clinch things now. You’ll be a fugitive and I’ll get out wanted dodgers on you. If you can get yourself a lead on the gunrunners, you ought to be accepted by them with no trouble at all and no suspicion.”

  “I sure as hell hope so,” Nash said, buckling on the gun rig McAllister had handed to him. “You get me grub and a horse?”

  “End of the alley. You might look up Tanner before you clear town. I can’t get anything out of him, but you might scare somethin’ worthwhile from him. I’ll lead the search the other way.” He chuckled. “Poor old Jim’ll be fumin’ that he didn’t get a chance to help!”

  “Yeah. Well, thanks, McAllister. Now I’d best be goin’.” Nash paused. “That shotgun through the cell window. Was that one of your loco ideas to make it look authentic?”

  McAllister sobered. “No. I don’t know who was behind that.”

  Nash nodded as Chet the deputy began to groan. They hurried down the alley to where the captain had tethered Nash’s horse.

  “Where’s Tanner now?” Nash asked as he swung into the saddle.

  “Got a lean-to in the backyard of Lane’s saloon,” the army man said. “Watch Brazos. I’m sure he’s in this. And good luck, Nash. We’re dependin’ on you to stop those guns reachin’ the wrong hands.”

  “Adios,” Nash said, throwing a salute as he turned his mount and spurred into the night.

  He was glad to be out of that cell. McAllister had been a little too convincing for a while and Nash had begun to feel the burn of hemp around his throat.

  It was good to be free and moving again ...

  The lean-to was attached to the rear wall of the saloon. The yard around it stank of stale beer, whiskey dregs and urine.

  Clay Nash had his Colt in his hand, thumb on the hammer, as he moved silently to the lean-to's door. There was a latch string. He tugged on it gently, taking up the slack before raising the latch slowly. When the string would come no farther, Nash pushed against the door and it started to swing in.

  The door stopped abruptly as it hit something, then followed a metallic crash as a stack of empty cans fell over. He knew it was Tanner’s alarm system and he went in crouching, swinging towards the dark oblong of a bunk across the rear wall where Tanner was already upright, bringing a gun around. The weapon blasted and the muzzle flash momentarily lit up the small room. Nash triggered in reply and Tanner was blown back against the flimsy wall with a crash.

  Rotten planks splintered and the man’s body fell into the yard beyond. Someone in the saloon yelled. Nash jammed a chair under the door latch and dived across the bunk, his shoulders splintering the remains of the planks as he shot out of the hut and into the
yard, rolling on his shoulders and then feeling Tanner’s body under him.

  Buck Tanner swung his gun around and it boomed close to Nash’s left ear, deafening him. Nash smashed his Colt against the man’s hand and there was a thin scream of pain as the wrist bone cracked. He rammed a knee into Tanner’s soft belly and shoved the muzzle of the Colt into the man’s mouth.

  “Pueblo River! Who was in on it? Pronto, or I’ll blow a hole in the back of your head you can drive a wagon through!”

  His ears were ringing and he couldn’t tell if anyone was coming from the saloon. But the lean-to was shaking and he figured someone was trying to smash in the door.

  He turned his right ear to Tanner as he saw the man’s mouth working. He pulled back the Colt barrel enough so Tanner could speak.

  “Hunnicutt. Jeff Hunnicutt. He knows. Hires his gun ...”

  “Where? Quick, or—”

  “Wichita Falls. Red River buffalo runners.” Tanner gasped and Nash jerked him to a sitting position.

  “Was Brazos in on it, too?” His hearing was coming back slowly in his left ear and through the ringing he heard voices shouting on the far side of the lean-to.

  Tanner nodded and that was good enough for Nash. He hit the man full in the face with the barrel of the Colt and somersaulted away as the back of the lean-to was blown to matchwood by the thunderous blast of a shotgun. He saw Tanner’s body kick into the air, back arching, limbs flailing as the buckshot hit.

  Nash spun, shooting as two men appeared in the smoking gap in the wall. One man screamed and the other dropped the shotgun and palmed up a six-gun with such speed that Nash knew it had to be Brazos Lane.

  The Wells Fargo man triggered and Lane staggered and spun away, stumbling over the other man who was down on his knees. Nash caught a glimpse of more men pouring out of the rear door of the saloon. He snapped off two shots, bounded to his feet and ran for the high planked fence. Guns hammered and splinters flew from the fence ahead of him.

  He hit the top of the fence hard with a wild leap, got a momentary grip with his boot and swung his other leg over. The planks shuddered under him as bullets drove into the wood. He dropped into the alley beyond and ducked into the abandoned blacksmith’s yard where he had left his horse.

  He hit leather hard and rammed his empty Colt back into its holster. As his horse leapt forward under the urging of his heels, he ducked to clear the doorway, slid the Winchester free of its scabbard and levered in a shell.

  Shouting men were pounding down the alley. Nash triggered off shots that scattered them in all directions and then he hit the end of the alley, ran his mount across a weed-grown lot and found himself at the north edge of town.

  This was good enough for him. He could clear Amarillo and later swing south-east and make his way to Wichita Falls.

  Chapter Five – Red River

  It was a long trail to Wichita Falls. On the way there Nash discovered that McAllister had gotten out a handbill on him. The dodger listed Nash as a fugitive wanted for “questioning in connection with three murders between Lubbock and Amarillo.” A footnote added that he was wanted on suspicion of a fourth murder in Amarillo.

  Nash figured McAllister must have decided to utilize Tanner’s death and saddle him with the blame, which was fine as far as beefing up Nash’s credentials as an outlaw was concerned, but which posed problems for the Wells Fargo agent.

  It was impossible to put out such a wanted dodger without offering a substantial reward. And McAllister had made it substantial all right; he had, on behalf of the U.S. Army, offered $500 if Nash was brought in dead and $1,500 if he was delivered alive. Nash thought, bitterly, that it was nice of McAllister to at least make it more worthwhile for a bounty hunter to keep him alive, but he could be captured with a bullet through the lungs and still be considered “alive”.

  Besides, anyone after the bounty might decide it was a lot less trouble to put a bullet in his back and collect the five hundred in gold. Or several men could gang-up on him and share the $1,500 between them, dragging him in half dead but still technically “alive.”

  Nash cursed the army captain and wondered if the man had any thoughts about the potential trouble he could cause by his zeal. Likely not, Nash decided. McAllister was a dedicated officer and would see only the possible end result. What transpired on the way to achieving that result would be of no consequence to him. If Nash had to run the gauntlet of bounty hunters and other greedy citizens out for blood money, well, that was his problem and went with the job of working undercover.

  The first bushwhack occurred at a river ford, the gunman hiding out in thick timber and shooting at Nash as he was filling his canteen. The lead zipped into the river and Nash threw himself back. The second shot punctured the canteen. His horse ran for cover before Nash could reach the rifle scabbard and he was left with only his six-gun and no shelter.

  He did the only thing he could do—he dived into the river. Lead ripped into the water around his head as the hidden rifleman pumped a magazine-load of bullets at him. The current was swift and he was carried around a bend. He caught a glimpse of the gunman riding through timber, trying to get to an outcrop of land where he’d have a better shot.

  Nash struck out for the shore across the current. It swept him downstream and he lunged for the cover of a tree that had snagged on submerged rocks. A bullet ricocheted off the tree trunk in an eruption of bark and splinters. Nash hauled iron. Though the Colt was wet, he got off three fast shots before a misfire.

  He was lucky. One of the bullets burned across the rump of the would-be assassin’s mount and the animal twisted around. The man, caught unawares, swayed in the saddle and dropped his rifle. That was enough for him. He let his horse have its head and thundered back into the timber.

  Nash caught his mount and rode across the river. That night he made a cold camp in a cave high above the trail to Wichita Falls.

  There was no more trouble till he met a trail herd heading north, running across them at their night camp two days later. He was invited to stay and eat, which he did gratefully as he was low on grub. While he was talking to the trail men around the campfire, he noticed one man watching him closely. The man was the point rider, and he looked away swiftly each time Nash caught his eye.

  Later, smoking a cigarette over a last cup of coffee before turning in, Nash asked the trail boss casually, “Do your own scoutin’?”

  The man shook his head. “Got some prime stock I’m personally takin’ care of along the trail. Too busy for scoutin’. I leave that to the point man.”

  Nash nodded and said no more. He knew the coffee was made from fresh beans, not stale ones that had come all the way up from the border in the chuck wagon, and there had been eggs for the boss with his slab of beefsteak. There was a small town nearby called Childress, and he figured that the point man, scouting ahead, had ridden into town to buy coffee and eggs. It was likely that he had seen a wanted dodger in town with Nash’s likeness on it.

  Nash spread his blanket away from the trail crew, as etiquette dictated, but he chose an area near some rocks that he could keep at his back. When the camp was quiet and the nighthawks were crooning tunelessly to the herd out on the flats, Nash slid out of his blanket and pushed his war bag under it. He left his hat at the top and his boots at the bottom. Then he sat down on a patch of sand amongst the rocks and dozed with his six-gun in his hand.

  He jerked awake in the black hour before dawn, alerted by a dull thud and a grunt. Nash crouched in the rocks and his mouth tightened as he saw a man kneeling beside his blankets, plunging a broad-bladed Bowie knife into the bedroll, over and over. Nash stood up and reversed his Colt, smashing the butt down brutally on the man’s head.

  The point rider collapsed across the torn blankets, the knife falling from his nerveless fingers.

  When Nash was saddled up and ready to leave, he saw the trail boss propped up on one elbow on his bedroll, watching. Nash’s right hand streaked to his Colt butt but the trail man made no host
ile move.

  “Had you picked as a hard hombre, mister, but you ain’t done me no harm and you behaved yourself in my camp, so you just ride on out and it’s forgotten.”

  Nash, settling into leather, glanced towards the unconscious point rider.

  “Don’t worry none about him,” the trail boss said. “I’ve got no time for a man who’ll slip a shiv into another while he’s sleepin’. I’ll pay him off when he comes round. If he comes round.”

  “He’ll live,” Nash said, throwing the trail boss a salute. “Muchas gracias, amigo. One more thing. Do you know where the buffalo runners hang out in Wichita Falls?”

  “Sure. Red River end of town. A lot of ’em float their hides down on rafts and keelboats.” He squinted at Nash. “If you got a strong stomach and a hankerin’ to slip across the Red River into Indian Territory, I’ve heard a man can crawl right in amongst a pile of hides and live long enough to crawl out on the far side. A golden eagle’s all it takes.”

  Nash smiled thinly. “Thanks for the tip. I might have to do that if a man on my backtrail gets too close.”

  “It works, pard, believe me.” The boss hesitated and added, “I used to have another name once, years ago, made my stake in the Territory, came back and put it into trail drivin’ by contract and I’m doin’ all right. Other fellers made their stake here and smuggled it and themselves across the Red River in amongst the buffalo hides. Anyways, good luck.”

  Nash turned his mount and rode into the darkness, thinking about what the trail boss had told him.

  A couple of boxes of rifles hidden amongst a huge pile of buffalo hides would be hard to detect, he figured. It would be one way of getting the guns out of Texas when all the river crossings and the border and state lines were being watched by the army and federal marshals.