Clay Nash 20

by Brett Waring

  It looked as though Jeff Hunnicutt would be a man worth talking to.

  Wichita Falls on the Red River in no way resembled Wichita, Kansas, one-time hell town of the cattle trails. If anything, Wichita Falls was more like one of the river towns in Missouri or along the Ohio River where the mountain men went to buy stores and have a good time before heading back for the wilderness. It was in the heart of buffalo country and a lot of lone riders looking constantly over their shoulders passed through the town, crossing the Red River into Indian Territory, the lawless land that would one day be called Oklahoma.

  Here they were safe from the law except for a few dedicated badge-toters who went in looking for them, totally disregarding the fact that they held no jurisdiction there. Some of the men joined up with roving buffalo hunters—“runners” as they preferred to be called—and ended up going straight and making a new life for themselves. For there was still money to be made in buffalo hides, and if a man didn’t mind getting a little blood and guts on his hands and living rough he could make his stake here. Others in the Territory made their living the only way they knew how: by the gun.

  There were plenty of hard hombres near the Red River and not the least of them were the buffalo runners themselves. They were a breed apart, half mountain men and half bull-buffalo, a lot of people said. They lived and played rough and any man who couldn’t measure up and take their murderous jokes simply didn’t get a chance at making a living; they harassed him until he either quit or reached for gun or knife. Strangers in the land were looked on with suspicion until they showed they could fit in or were tough enough to stand up for themselves.

  There was one rule the buffalo runners followed strictly: a man’s private business was his alone. Any man could “ride the Red” without fear of being questioned about his past. But he had to meet their standards, and it was a wise man who, realizing he couldn’t, moved across the Red and into Indian Territory.

  The river, big and muddy at the landing end of town, was crowded with crude rafts piled high with stinking buffalo skins and there were stacks of them on the bank under open-sided, leafy shelters. Even though salted down, they sent a sour stench over the town that could turn a stranger’s stomach three miles away if the wind was blowing in that direction.

  Keelboats were poled out of the morning mist with dirty, scarred, blood-spattered men in buckskins in the bows, having just enough room to stand, the rest of the craft being crammed tight with hides, some of which trailed in the water. Flat-bottomed punts stood by and answered the calls of buffalo men who did not own boats but had managed to transport their hides down to the Territory side of the river by wagon or crude, giant sized travois.

  Buyers and agents set up business at trestle tables under canvas or calico flies, sometimes paying in vouchers for ammunition or a new Christian Sharps rifle instead of actual cash, depending on the buffalo man. Roustabouts, muscles bulging, stood by. When a heap of hides were bought, they began sorting, spreading out those that still had globules of fat clinging to them for further scraping by silent Indian women. The rest of the hides were folded and placed in a lever press to be compressed into thick, solid bundles for easier transport.

  Some agents had camps on the north side of the river in the Territory, preferring to chance outlaw raids on a quick dash across the south-west corner and into Kansas or Colorado where they were closer to a railroad for shipping the hides East.

  These were the men who, if approached in the right way might hide a man amongst the bundles of hides and slip him past any law watching the area at the time and into Indian Territory.

  As the nameless trail boss had told Nash out on the high plains, sometimes more than men were smuggled in with the hide bundles.

  When Clay Nash arrived in Wichita Falls, he was surprised at the size of the place. There were buildings scattered over a mile or more of country, spreading up from the river along crooked, rutted streets.

  The streets were crowded with wagons, horses and people. Buckskin-clad men with massive rifles cradled in their arms or resting over their shoulders stood around talking and drinking sour mash from stone jugs. They smelled rancid, with a mixture of stale buffalo fat and grease, dried blood and plain human sweat. Mixed with this stench was the aromatic odor of tobacco, a valuable commodity out on the Red.

  Nash found a livery on a side street but there were no stalls left and the corrals were crowded. The owner offered to “squeeze the horse in” for Nash, but the Wells Fargo man shook his head; the animal had brought him far and fast and deserved a stall for itself with proper grain and grooming. He finally found a place that could cater to his wants, though the man demanded ten dollars. Nash was glad McAllister had slipped him his chamois bag of gold pieces before he quit Amarillo.

  “Know a runner callin’ himself Hunnicutt?” he asked casually as he paid the money over. “Jeff Hunnicutt?”

  The stable hand sniffed and turned away, picking up his manure rake and going into the stall next door. Nash stepped after him.

  “I asked you a question, mister.”

  The man leaned on the rake handle and glared at Nash with rheumy eyes. “Most bufflers hang out in The Cave. Might be he’s there. If he’s in town.”

  “Where’ll I find this ‘Cave’?”

  “Down by the river.”

  Nash went out and was jostled as he made his way along a boardwalk. He was forced into the rutted street several times and once he nearly went down under a recklessly driven wagon. Cursing the driver, he forced his way back onto the walk and held his position this time, shoving back when he was shoved, digging in with his heels and bracing his body. It was slow progress but he gradually made his way to the landing end of town where he gagged at the stench of stacked hides.

  Buckskinners stood about discussing the merits of the Sharps as opposed to the Remington rolling-block rifles; this type of curved-blade skinner in comparison with the Green River straight-edged blades with the drop point. They spoke of herds moving across the Dead Men’s Walk, stampeding through a hunting camp out on the Resurrection Mesa, moving in mass migration in the fall across the Llano. It was a strange, alien world to Nash and he couldn’t see any saloon or drinking tent that went by the name of “The Cave.”

  He stopped a man with bulging biceps who wore only a buckskin vest and stained trousers. There was a heavy, cast-iron skillet dangling from a long rawhide thong on the man’s belt below the beaded sheath that held his skinning knife. The man had a massive Sharps rifle in one scarred hand, the fingernails blackened and broken. His fair, food-matted beard hung to his chest. Slowly he turned his big head.

  “I wouldn’t grab my arm like that if I was you, amigo, ’cause I’m a man who don’t much like anyone layin’ hands on him, you savvy?” The warning was delivered matter-of-factly, without heat or real threat, but the menace was there in the man’s iron muscled frame and the confident way he spoke.

  Nash dropped his hand. “Just tryin’ to get your attention, friend. I’m lookin’ for a saloon or drinkin’ place called The Cave. Wondered if you could help me.”

  The big man looked at Nash soberly for a spell, then threw back his head and laughed. “Drinkin’ place? Waterin’ hole? The Cave?” He dropped a thick arm across Nash’s shoulder and the Wells Fargo man, not expecting it, felt his knees buckle momentarily. “Friend, if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ like a saloon, you’re in for one big surprise. And I want to be there to see your face when you find The Cave. So you come along with me and I’ll show you the place.”

  Nash had no choice. Already iron-hard fingers had gripped his left arm and he was being dragged bodily through the heavy crowds. The man lowered his Sharps and, holding the fourteen-pound weapon easily in one hand, swung the big muzzle from side to side, cutting a swathe through the mob.

  His iron skillet banged and bounced against his thick thigh as they made their way down to the river bank almost at the water’s edge. Nash stiffened, wondering if he was about to be the butt of some wild
buffalo runner’s sense of humor. But the big, bearded man led him over the red mud around timbered landings and drawn-up keelboats, through groups of men making deals in whispered tones, and away from the town itself.

  Nash pulled back against the man’s grip and the buffalo hunter turned to frown at him.

  “We’re gettin’ away from town,” Nash said.

  The man showed broken teeth in a tight grin. “Aw, don’t get to worryin’ none, amigo, I ain’t about to roll you for whatever dinero you might be carryin’. I’m takin’ you to The Cave.”

  Still Nash held back, his right hand hovering near his gun butt. The other’s eyes narrowed at the movement of Nash’s hand.

  “How much farther?” Nash asked.

  “Just round that bend, beyond that point and the trees. Honest.” When Nash still hesitated, he sighed, gusting onion-and-whiskey breath over the Wells Fargo man. “Look, if I wanted to do you harm, I could break you in two with one hand without even lettin’ go of my Sharps. And I could stuff that toy Colt clear down your throat so’s only the hammer was showin’. You couldn’t stop me with a bullet even if you had time to put one into me. I ain’t boastin’, just tellin’. Now come along.”

  He practically lifted Nash off the ground as he spoke his last words. Nash decided he had little choice and gave no resistance.

  The big man had been speaking the truth. Around the point and beyond a small clump of trees was The Cave. It was a huge arched opening in the high riverbank. A plank bar had been set on top of empty whiskey kegs. Campfires burned in front of the place and groups of men squatted around the fires drinking from stone jugs, roasting meat and eating straight from the blades of knives. A tough looking character with a black leather patch over one eye stood behind the bar, a sawn-off shotgun swinging from a brass dog-clip at his belt. His massive arms were folded over his barrel chest. He nodded as the grinning buffalo man dragged Nash up to the bar.

  “Howdy, Skillet,” the barman greeted the hunter. “Jug as usual?”

  Skillet looked down at Nash. “My pard here’s buyin’. You run to two dollars for a jug of snake juice, amigo?”

  “Reckon I owe you that for bringin’ me here,” Nash said, rubbing at his bruised arm where Skillet had gripped him. He nodded to the barkeep. “Give him his jug. I’ll have a glass of the stuff.”

  “Glass?” echoed the barman. “Hell, man, this is a buffler runners’ hangout! I don’t keep glasses! I sell by the jug or the barrel. Take your choice.”

  “Guess I’ll pass then,” Nash said, and he staggered as his companion clapped a heavy arm over his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, amigo, you can have a swig from my jug.”

  Nash smiled stiffly at the offer. The jug came and was paid for. Skillet bit out the cork and spat it away. The cork landed in a plate of beans being scooped up on a broad-bladed hunting knife by a man sitting at the fire nearby.

  “Judas!” the man roared, glaring at Skillet. “You clumsy son of a bitch! You ruined my supper!”

  The man got up and heaved his plate of beans at Skillet. Nash ducked but some of the beans spotted his shirt. The plate hit Skillet’s shoulder and bounced off, dribbling a stream of beans down the side of his vest. The man who had thrown the plate, wild-eyed with drink, came charging with his knife out in front of him, ready to gut Skillet. The big man casually swung the Sharps in a short arc and the heavy barrel took the belligerent man in the middle of his face. His legs flew up into the air and his body crashed back across the shoulders of two other men at the same campfire.

  In an instant the two were up and roaring, knives drawn. Nash was shoved aside by the big man as he reached for his Colt. Skillet lifted his cast-iron pan on its long rawhide thong and smashed the flat base into the face of the first man, then he lifted it high and brought it down with a dull, ringing sound on top of the second man’s head. Both folded without a sound, bloody and unconscious.

  Skillet let the utensil drop to his side on the thong and scooped up the jug he had placed on the bar. He winked at the staring Nash and tapped the skillet, swigging from the jug of whiskey.

  “Saves the hands,” he grinned, and drank again, wiping a filthy paw across the neck of the jug before offering it to Nash.

  The Wells Fargo man hesitated, then took the jug and drank, almost choking on the burning liquor.

  Skillet clapped Nash casually between the shoulders and the blow almost drove him face-first to the ground. The buffalo man yanked him upright by the shirt collar and shoved him towards a vacant campfire.

  “Let’s set and eat and you can tell me why you wanted to come to The Cave, amigo.”

  Nash didn’t give him any argument.

  Chapter Six – Buffalo Territory

  Swallowing the piece of half-cooked buffalo steak he had taken from the point of Skillet’s hunting knife, Nash wiped the back of a hand across his mouth.

  “I’m looking for a buff-hunter name of Hunnicutt.”

  Skillet paused with a huge piece of meat halfway in his mouth, his eyes narrowing. “Hunnicutt? Jeff Hunnicutt?”

  “That’s the man. Know him?”

  Skillet rammed the meat in his mouth and began to chew, shrugging. “Worked for me a few times as a shooter, once or twice as a skinner. Heard tell that sometimes he works at more’n buffler-runnin’. Ain’t seen him lately, though.” He carved more steak and tossed a piece to Nash who caught it and then yelled, juggling the sizzling meat from one hand to the other as Skillet went on. “Jeff likes to stay close to the north bank of the Red so he can slip across into the Territory when strangers come askin’ for him.”

  “Friend of his in Amarillo recommended I look him up,” Nash said.

  Skillet’s thick eyebrows arched. “You dunno Jeff then?”

  Nash shook his head. “Never saw him. This mutual acquaintance mentioned him. I—er—got reasons for wantin’ to take a close look at the Territory, too.” He gestured across the river, now indistinct in the dusk.

  Skillet grunted. “Who was the mutual acquaintance?”

  Nash hesitated. “Buck Tanner.”

  Skillet didn’t look at him but Nash thought the man’s dirty knuckles whitened as he sawed away at the chunk of spitted meat.

  “You know Tanner?” Nash asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Heard of him,” Skillet said. He chewed before adding, “nothin’ good.”

  Nash nodded. “Tanner was no good at all.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s dead. They blame me.”

  “’Course it was some other feller who just happens to look like you,” Skillet said.

  “He didn’t look in the least like me. Feller by the name of Brazos Lane. Used a shotgun. He was aimin’ at me at the time.”

  Skillet cleaned the blade of the knife across his buckskin-clad thighs and returned it to his sheath. He wiped his greasy beard on the end of the vest and scratched at his nose. “You’re soundin’ more and more interestin’, feller. This Brazos Lane is well-known in this neck of the woods. Used to do some bounty huntin’ up this way.” He squinted across the fire, looking expectantly at Nash.

  The Wells Fargo agent returned the buffalo man’s stare levelly. “I savvied that a man could ride up here and no one would want to know about his backtrail.”

  Skillet nodded slowly. “You’re right, friend. You got a name?”

  “Clay Nash.” McAllister had put his correct name on the wanted dodgers and Nash saw no reason to change it.

  Skillet seemed to be thinking for a long minute, then he looked up, shaking his head slowly. “Can’t recall you, amigo, and I’ve seen a whole slew of wanted dodgers. None lately, though. We don’t get too many up here unless some lawman’s loco enough to ride in and start nailin’ ’em to trees. Only one was stupid enough to try puttin’ up dodgers in town. They found him three miles downstream with a wagon wheel tied round his neck. We make our own law here.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place,” Nash grinned.

  Skillet studi
ed Nash soberly. “You want work, you look me up. My camp’s at the north-west end of Dead Men’s Walk. If you can shoot, I’ll put you on hunter’s pay and a share. If you can’t measure up, mebbe you can skin or scrape or throw some muscle onto the presses.”

  Nash stood, thrusting out his hand to Skillet. “Thanks. I might look you up. But I still have to find Hunnicutt.”

  Skillet rose and hitched up his trousers. He seemed completely unaffected by the jug of whiskey he had drunk as he rested a hand on Nash’s shoulder. “Amigo, you know the Lucky Strike Livery stables in town here?”

  Nash nodded. “Got my horse stalled there.”

  “Makes it easy then. You ask the hostler about Hunnicutt. He’s Jeff’s brother.”

  “Hell, I already asked him and he told me to try The Cave.”

  Skillet grinned crookedly. “If you walked in here without a buffler man with you, you’d have gone for a swim. Maybe you wouldn’t’ve surfaced till your carcass was washed into the shallows. Too many men here can’t take chances on strangers askin’ after ’em.”

  “Guess I was lucky then.”

  “You was. When you ask the hostler this time, you’ll have to back up the question. Whether you use a gun or gold is up to you. Savvy? But watch Lew Hunnicutt. He’s an ornery cuss who just might shove a pitchfork in your face.”

  “I’ll watch it. Thanks, Skillet. Maybe I’ll see you out on the Red.”

  “Mebbe.”

  Skillet turned and ambled back to the bar as Nash left The Cave and walked back along the dark riverbank towards the bright lights and raucousness of Wichita Falls.

  The sour man with the rake wasn’t in sight when Nash entered the livery. Two lanterns burning on the rear wall threw just enough light to show the way down the aisle.

  “You there, Hunnicutt? Lew?” Nash called, hand on his gun butt.

  “Lew ain’t, but I am.”

  Nash whirled. His Colt whispered out of leather but a pickaxe handle slammed across the back of his head and another knocked the Colt from his hand. He staggered and fell to one knee, reaching out to steady himself against a stall post. Someone kicked his hand free and he fell. A boot drove into his side and another skidded off his head. Stars exploded in his brain and he was only semi-conscious when hands gripped his arms and jerked him to his feet.