Clay Nash 20

by Brett Waring

  Skillet spurred ahead and Nash frowned as he walked his mount after him, then he dug in his heels and set the animal to a faster pace.

  He would have to find out about Shiloh later. He had a hunch it might hold the key to the whereabouts of the stolen guns.

  Skillet’s camp was scattered over an acre of ground on the inside bend of a creek that ran into the Red River. There were lean-to’s and hide tents, shacks built of a mixture of logs and mud with sod roofs, wagons, hide presses, pegging ground for the salted hides and, over all, the stomach-churning stench of a buffalo camp.

  Men were in bunches, some squatting around small campfires, smoking, eating and drinking while others tended to firearms or saddle gear. The Indians were in a small camp off on their own and sat silently.

  When the wagon moved into the campsite, Nash was riding on the off side of it, talking to the young Indian squaw, trying to make a deal for a buckskin shirt.

  “How about a double eagle?” he asked after his previous offers had been refused. “Gold piece? Worth twenty dollar.”

  She shook her head, pointed to his midriff and, puzzled, he frowned and looked down. He saw his gunbelt with its brass buckle. Then above it, he saw his trouser belt. It was a narrow strip of tooled leather done by Mexican craftsmen, and the silver Ranger buckle had been presented to him by Jim Hume as a bonus for pulling off an assignment; he’d already earned the usual Wells Fargo presentation watches and guns, and the belt with the solid silver buckle had been Hume’s idea. The so-called “Ranger belt” had a horseshoe-shaped buckle embossed with the heavy head of a longhorn steer and intertwining vines. A silver keeper held down the belt tongue, and on this was worked the illuvia de oro, the beautiful “rain-of-gold” flower of Mexico. The very end of the belt was encased in an arrowhead-shaped silver tip, engraved and embossed with a rose topped by an acorn cupped by oak leaves.

  Nash touched the buckle. “You want this for a shirt?”

  She shook her head. “My name Yellow Rose. Yellow Rose want other silver.”

  “The arrowhead at the end?”

  “Yes.”

  Nash pulled out his hunting knife and cut off the end of the belt. He handed the silver arrowhead to the Indian girl. Examining it carefully, she smiled.

  “I make you shirt.”

  He threw her a salute and drew rein, letting the wagon roll past. Then he turned the head of his mount and walked it towards the camp, watched carefully by the men who were waiting for Skillet. Some had already been hired and were ready to start, others had stopped at the camp hoping to find work.

  Nash dismounted and then checked himself abruptly as he recognized two men emerging from a sod hut.

  The one-eared Foxy and Jeff Hunnicutt.

  Now that the wagon was no longer screening him, Nash was alone, standing clear of the main group and his horse. Foxy’s and Hunnicutt’s eyes were drawn to him and he saw instantly that they recognized him.

  Jeff Hunnicutt gave a gasp but Foxy recovered quickly and went for his gun. It was a mistake. Nash’s draw was a blur of motion, then his Colt bucked and Foxy spun as lead smashed into him, his own weapon flying from his hand. He fell to the ground and lay there, twitching, his heels drumming.

  Jeff Hunnicutt was crouched, his six-gun almost clear of leather, but he froze as Nash swung the Colt in his direction. Hunnicutt’s gaze locked with that of the Wells Fargo man and his lips parted slowly. He swallowed and the tip of his tongue flicked over his lips and he slowly let his six-gun drop back into its holster and lifted his hands. He straightened carefully, keeping his hands well away from his body, eyes fixed on Nash’s trigger finger.

  Skillet had shouted to the others to stay out of it, indicating that it was a private quarrel he knew about, and he was willing to let the men settle their differences there and then. No one took any notice of Foxy who was breathing his last.

  Nash continued to bore his chill gaze into Hunnicutt’s eyes, and the outlaw’s hands began to shake as he held them above his head.

  “Shuck your gunbelt,” Nash commanded.

  “Listen, Nash, we—”

  Nash’s gun roared and Hunnicutt yelled and staggered back as the bullet tore the hat from his head. He looked fearfully at the Wells Fargo man and fumbled at his gunbelt buckle. Then he untied the rawhide thong around his thigh and let the rig drop to the ground around his ankles. When Nash jerked his gun barrel to the left, Hunnicutt swiftly stepped that way, out of the gun rig.

  Nash walked forward slowly, stopped a few feet in front of the sweating Hunnicutt.

  “You don’t have two pards to hold me down now, Hunnicutt,” he gritted, then he slammed the barrel of his Colt hard across the man’s midriff.

  As Jeff Hunnicutt gasped and grabbed at his ribs, knees buckling, Nash holstered his gun, unbuckled the belt and tossed the rig in Skillet’s direction. The buffalo man caught it in one huge hand, nodding slightly, then he walked across and kicked Hunnicutt’s gun and belt to the edge of the crowd. The men were pushing at each other for a better view. As the weeks wore on and men living in close proximity began to get on each other’s nerves, there were always brawls, but seldom was there a good fight to start off the hunting season. And this looked like it had the makings of a knock-down, drag-out affair. Bets were being placed even before Hunnicutt staggered upright and eyed Nash.

  They glared at each other for a spell, then Nash feinted with his left, moving fast. Hunnicutt instinctively dodged away and Nash’s right exploded in his face. The outlaw floundered back, blood spurting from his nose.

  He roared in anger more than pain and dug in with his heels as Nash bored in. Hunnicutt had a slight advantage as he was a little above Nash on the slope. He suddenly brought up a boot as Nash closed in, taking the Wells Fargo man in the stomach. Nash grunted, jack-knifed and fell to his knees, then rolled down the slope. Hunnicutt jumped at him, meaning to maim him with his boot heels. But Nash rolled aside, grabbed one of Hunnicutt’s legs and heaved, throwing the man onto his back. Then Nash threw himself on the outlaw, grinding a knee into his belly and hooking an elbow against his jaw.

  Hunnicutt convulsed, arching his back, roaring, trying to buck Nash off him. He rolled and twisted and succeeded in making Nash fall to one side. Hunnicutt kicked free, a heel catching Nash on the side of the head. He jerked his head back, lost his balance and stretched out.

  Hunnicutt was on him instantly, straddling him, locking fingers around his throat. Blood roared in Nash’s ear, the sound blocking out the shouting of the hunters as they urged the brawlers on. His eyes began to sting and his vision clouded. He tried to break that stranglehold but couldn’t.

  He saw Hunnicutt’s bloody face above him and then the outlaw began to smash his head against the ground. Nash stiffened the fingers of his right hand and stabbed them into Hunnicutt’s eyes. The iron-hard fingers caught one eye. Hunnicutt screamed and brought his hands to his face.

  Nash hooked him under the jaw with an elbow, pushed him away and scrambled to his feet, Hunnicutt tried to stagger up at the same time but Nash hooked a right to his head and dropped him on his back. Then he twisted fingers in the outlaw’s hair, jerked him up to a sitting position and slammed a right to the jaw and another to the face. More blood sprayed, staining Nash’s trousers, and Hunnicutt moaned, his hands covering his ruined face as he rolled about in agony on the ground.

  Clay Nash got up slowly, breathing raggedly. It was obvious that Hunnicutt wasn’t going to rise.

  Nash looked through swollen eyes at Skillet and held out a hand for his gun rig. He buckled it on awkwardly as he stumbled down towards the creek, spitting blood from a cut inside his mouth. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the creek and began to wash his face.

  When he staggered back the men were paying off their bets and Jeff Hunnicutt was being carried to the sod hut by two burly skinners. Foxy’s body still lay on the ground.

  Skillet nodded at the body. “Your chore to bury him, amigo.”

  Nash nodded. “Re
ckon that’s fair enough.”

  Skillet pulled at an ear lobe. “I can’t let Hunnicutt go. I need him as a shooter. You two had your troubles and you fought ’em out. Fine. But from now on the two of you are just buffalo runners. No more fightin’ on my time, Nash. I’ll tell Hunnicutt the same.”

  Nash nodded in agreement. “Where’ll I find a spade?”

  “Down at the Injun camp. Bury him beyond the knoll, well away from here. Pile rocks on or the wolves’ll get him.”

  Skillet spat and turned away. Nash walked towards the Indian encampment.

  Chapter Eight – Big River to Cross

  Jim Hume alighted from the stage as it rocked to a stop at the Seymour depot on Cactus Street. The local agent gaped at him.

  “This is sure a surprise, Mr. Hume. If we knew you were ridin’ on the Amarillo Stage I’d’ve—”

  “I ain’t stayin’, Mitchell,” Hume cut in, sweating, obviously a man in a hurry. “Look, I have to be able to move fast. Can you get me a mount right away? A rifle, too.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Hume. Give me twenty minutes.”

  Mitchell was already on the move as Hume walked across the platform. He jumped to the ground and hurried to the end of the street where it junctioned with Main. He turned left and made directly for the U.S. Marshal’s office which was attached to the local law office and jail. Inside, he found a gaunt man with a straggly gray moustache and a balding head packing the bowl of a charred corncob pipe.

  “Jim Hume, Wells Fargo,” the chief of detectives said.

  The marshal raised bushy gray eyebrows, set down the pipe and stood up to grip Hume’s hand firmly.

  “Laird Bowman. Glad to know you, Hume. Heard a lot about you. What can I do for you?”

  “You had the word that Clay Nash was captured up in Wichita Falls, I understand.”

  “That’s right. Livery man named Hunnicutt managed to jump him and hogtie him. Sent my deputy, Lee Neubold. Good man. He’ll get Nash back here in one piece, no worry.”

  “Have you heard from your deputy yet?”

  Bowman shook his head and picked up his pipe, preparing to light it. “Be just about arrivin’ in Wichita Falls, I reckon. What’s wrong?”

  “Dunno yet. Did a Captain Joshua McAllister call on you?”

  “Yep. He’s in charge of the U.S. Army investigation into them stolen guns. He went north after my deputy. I telegraphed McAllister, matter of fact, soon’s I got word about Nash. As per my instructions.” He added the last a little defensively.

  Hume raised a hand. “No argument with you, Marshal. But how much of a lead does McAllister have on me? He quit Amarillo maybe four hours before I found out about your wire.”

  “He’ll be that much ahead of you now, mebbe a shade less. He was ridin’ like the wind and took spare mounts. Had me wire on ahead to an Indian Agent at Oak Crossin’ to have fresh mounts ready for him.”

  Hume nodded. “Thanks, Bowman. I’ll—”

  Hume froze as a man wearing cardboard cuff protectors and an eyeshade entered the office holding the yellow form of a Western Union telegraph message. The man glanced at Hume, then handed the form to Bowman.

  “Urgent wire from Seymour, Laird.”

  The marshal took the form and read swiftly, sighing as he looked at Hume. “Your pard Nash has flown the coop. Left two more dead men behind. Livery man with his brains beat out, and another feller called Bull near blowed apart by a heavy caliber gun, likely a buffalo rifle.”

  “Can I see that?” Hume indicated the telegram.

  Bowman shook his head. “Federal business. Sorry, Hume.”

  “Damn, Nash is my man!”

  “He’s an outlaw and a killer,” the marshal said flatly.

  “Thanks a lot,” Hume said bitterly, then he left the office and hurried back to the Wells Fargo depot where a saddled horse was waiting for him.

  “Much obliged, Mitchell,” Hume said as he swung up into leather. “I’ll remember this.”

  “Pleasure, Mr. Hume. Good luck. Just wire if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  Hume hesitated. “There is, come to think of it. Send a wire to Captain Joshua McAllister, care of the Wichita Falls Army Post. Ask him to wait till I arrive.”

  Mitchell scribbled on his note pad, nodding. Hume doubted that the message would do any good, but he had to try to hold up McAllister. The man had quit Amarillo without telling Hume about the wire concerning Nash’s capture.

  Hume knew his top operative well enough to realize that he wouldn’t simply disappear. He would be following a lead. He must have been on a hot trail that took him off in the first place. Being captured might have been an inconvenience, but now that Nash was free again he would need room to follow through. If McAllister got too close in the interests of authenticity, he might endanger Nash.

  The army didn’t seem to realize this, just as he hadn’t seemed to realize that by putting out the kind of fake wanted dodger he had that he would probably be giving Nash a lot of aggravation from bounty hunters.

  For a man who was supposed to be an expert at his job, McAllister seemed to be making some obvious mistakes, Hume thought as he rode north.

  He just hoped he could head McAllister off before he pushed Nash into a situation that could result in the undercover agent’s death ...

  Clay Nash planted the forked stick firmly in the ground near the edge of the screening brush. He used his weight to push the sharpened end of the stick in as far as possible and then he wrapped a fist-sized rock in several layers of gunnysack and used this to hammer the stick in firmly. He looked around to see if the muffled thuds had disturbed the grazing buffalo on the slope across the valley, but they were browsing calmly, their dark hides moving slowly against the green of the hills.

  Nash crouched in the brush, spread his blanket out and set down the big Christian Sharps Special Skillet had given him on the understanding that its cost, and that of the ammunition he used, would be deducted from his share at the end of the season. Nash spread out fifty rounds of heavy .75 caliber ammunition, each brass cartridge case three-and-a-half inches long. The round nosed bullets had been deeply gouged in the shape of a cross, turning them into dum-dums to increase the force of impact. They would peel back like a banana skin, the lead tearing up the buffalo’s vital organs as it smashed through. They made for a cleaner kill as long as they entered the chest cavity.

  Placing his water canteen on his right, Nash stretched out on his stomach and thumbed back his hat, then he opened the breech of the rifle, slid in the long shell, closed the breech and sighted down the barrel through the buckhorn to the blade foresight. He swung the muzzle slowly over the buffalo on the far slope, looking for the old cow leader. He found her in the middle of the herd and waited patiently to get a clear shot at her.

  The opening came and he sucked down a breath, released half of it, and, in that moment of dead stillness when there wasn’t a quiver in the whole of his body, he squeezed the finely tuned trigger.

  The rifle butt smashed back in violent recoil and the thunder of the shot reverberated down the valley. Across on the opposite slope, the old cow went down to her knees, almost leisurely, shaking her head, and Nash saw by the gush of blood through the nostrils that he had placed the bullet correctly. Scarlet appeared at her mouth and dribbled to the grass, staining the green like paint. The old cow began to cough out her life and the rest of the herd moved away from her a little, giving her room. Only a few animals looked at the downed cow curiously.

  After raising their heads, they lowered them again and continued grazing. They had become so used to following the old cow that they would stay in her vicinity, waiting for her to get up and lead them to another place of her choice.

  But she would never lead the herd again.

  Nash’s rifle thundered a second time and a young bull dropped, legs folding as if jerked from under him by an invisible wire, nose plowing up the dirt as he settled onto his side, already dead. The bullet had taken him squarely in t
he heart.

  Nash reloaded, keeping the brass cartridge cases for refilling later at the camp. He stayed at his stand most of the day, shooting leisurely, the herd moving no more than twenty yards across the face of the slope. By mid-afternoon he had killed forty-seven buffalo, using only forty-eight bullets, one of the kills requiring two shots. Then the herd moved on.

  He gathered up his things, stowed them on his mount and rode back to the camp by the creek. The skinners were already working their way up the valley, two men going to each downed beast and making swift, deft cuts along the legs and brisket, then setting hooks attached to ropes hanging from a wagon. The vehicle then backed off and peeled the hide from the flesh, the skinners working fast to slash away sinews and tendons, careful not to pierce the hide and thus ruin it.

  Buzzards were circling in the sky and a few dozen were gorging themselves on the bloody carcasses that had been skinned. Coyotes and prairie wolves were gathering in the brush and timber at the edge of the valley and would slink down after dark.

  Back at the camp, Nash found Skillet already there, cleaning his Sharps and preparing to mold some bullets, the lead already bubbling in an iron cauldron over the fire. Yellow Rose had started Nash’s shirt, working on a hide that had already been cured. She was chewing on it at the moment, softening it so that it would resemble cloth when it was finished. He knew it would be smoked a mellow color over hickory wood and rubbed with a mixture of animal brains and river water. The smoking would remove most of the rancid smell and it would be all sewn together with animal sinew and fringed with buckskin strips.

  After cleaning his rifle he lent a hand pouring the bullet lead into molds while Skillet tapped out the ones that had cooled.

  “You got the makin’s of a fine buffler runner, Nash,” the big man said. “That’s sure a good tally for your third day here. But I’m wonderin’ if this sort of life is gonna suit you ...”