by Brett Waring
Nash looked at him levelly. “Suits me now. Long as the law don’t show.”
Skillet nodded slowly. “Which is what I want to talk about. I had word that a Captain McAllister hit Wichita Falls expectin’ to pick you up from the livery. Now he’s comin’ for you out here.”
Nash continued to look down at the mold, trying to hide the shock he felt at the news. He hadn’t expected McAllister to be loco enough to carry the charade this far. Showing up in Wichita Falls he could go along with, but the man was forcing him to run again by pursuing him out here. Nash couldn’t stay around Skillet’s camp now that McAllister, his supposed Nemesis, was coming after him. He cursed the army man for a fool. McAllister was forcing him to make a move before he knew anything definite about the guns. He was only surmising that they were being smuggled across the Red River to the Indian Territory amongst shipments of buffalo hides. It was nothing but a theory and he needed proof—but he wouldn’t get enough time now that McAllister was on his backtrail.
“Guess I better be movin’ along, Skillet,” Nash said tightly, aware that the big buffalo man was watching him closely. “Can’t afford to stick around and hope McAllister doesn’t locate me.”
The big man tapped out some more bullet heads. He picked up cool ones and shaved off the mold marks with expert slashes of his skinning knife. He continued to work while he spoke, not looking directly at Nash:
“Don’t want to lose a good man like you. You’re mighty handy with a gun. And I don’t mean just a Sharps.” He paused, glanced briefly at the silent Wells Fargo man, then picked up more bullet heads. “Fact is, a feller with your talents shouldn’t have trouble findin’ work anyplace he goes.”
“Mebbe I’m choosy,” Nash said. “I worked for Wells Fargo for a long time, Skillet. It’s too much of a change to work on the wrong side of the law. Leastways, right now it is. I don’t rightly know what I want to do except survive.”
Skillet nodded. “Sure, that’s the main thing. Survival. You really cut loose over that friend of yours gettin’ killed in the raid at Pueblo River, didn’t you?”
Nash’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t recollect tellin’ you that, Skillet.”
The big man smiled crookedly. “I keep my ears open. I got my contacts. I heard things about you for years, Nash. Fact is, I found it hard to believe that you busted loose from Wells Fargo. Figured it was some sort of set-up for you to work undercover.”
Nash was aware that Skillet was studying him closely now. He lifted his gaze to the other’s bearded face and smiled. “You sure ain’t as dumb as you look, big feller.”
Skillet stiffened, his massive shoulders tensing. “You are workin’ undercover. Is that what you’re sayin’?”
“Hell, I’d hardly admit it if I was, would I?” Nash shook his head, forcing a grin. “No, I meant you’ve seen through a trick used by Wells Fargo and the Rangers many a time in the past. But this time it’s genuine. I liked Jeb Burnley a lot and I owed him plenty. I got good and mad when I heard about his death—and then, when I was told to keep my nose out of things, that the army was handlin’ the investigation, it riled the hell out of me. I defied Hume before, but this time, as it turned out, I was buckin’ the whole army, too, not just the Company. I was up against federal agents who had orders that came clear down from the President himself. Guess they had no choice but to outlaw me after I tangled with those three soldiers near Lubbock. Then things went from bad to worse. I sure as hell don’t like bein’ an outlaw, Skillet, but I don’t aim to set still and let McAllister catch up with me.”
Clay Nash set down the cauldron and molds and stood up, brushing his hands across the seat of his trousers and adjusting his hat. “So, guess I’ll be sayin’ adios and thanks again for savin’ my neck back in Wichita Falls.”
“Set down, Nash,” Skillet said quietly.
But the Wells Fargo man shook his head. “No. I’ll be riding. I can make a lot of miles in the darkness and maybe get across the River into Indian Territory.”
“And what would you do there? Know anyone who’d help you? Know a place where you could hide out? Man with your reputation, Nash, would be committin’ suicide goin’ into the Territory alone. Army’s watchin’ the river. You’d never get across.”
Nash shrugged. “Okay, so I’ll head for buffalo country, but I sure as hell ain’t stayin’ here.”
“You are for now, amigo,” Skillet said, then he looked behind Nash.
Clay Nash spun, his hand streaking to his gun butt. But he froze when he looked at the cocked rifle in the hands of Jeff Hunnicutt whose battered face couldn’t mask the hate he harbored.
“What is this, Skillet?” Nash demanded, dropping his hand from his gun butt. “You reward hungry all of a sudden?”
“Now just set down an’ relax like I told you,” the big buffalo man said. Nash obeyed, aware that Hunnicutt had moved closer. Soon the other hunters and skinners would be returning from the plains. Skillet continued working on his bullets as he spoke. “Why’re you still lookin’ for them guns, Nash?”
“I’m not.”
“Then what’re you doin’ here?”
Nash did his best to look puzzled. “Hell, you brought me here, Skillet. You can’t deny that.”
The buffalo man looked at him soberly, no humor in him now. “Let’s take it back a step then. Why were you in Wichita Falls lookin’ for Jeff?”
Nash glanced over his shoulder at Hunnicutt. Then he smiled as he turned back to Skillet. “You just told me that Hunnicutt’s involved in the gun stealin’.”
Skillet stared silently. Hunnicutt said nothing.
“I was on Tanner’s trail when things blew up with those soldiers near Lubbock,” Nash explained. “I figured if I had to quit then I might as well quit while I could still find out who was on that Pueblo River raid. Why? ’Cause I wanted to lay my hands on the skunk who shot Jeb. I had an idea it was Brazos Lane, but I had to light out before I could be sure and then Tanner mentioned that Jeff Hunnicutt was up this way. Not havin’ anywhere better to go, I figured I might as well come here. I also figured that the men who stole the guns were pretty well organized and they’d have a way to get ’em out of Texas. Thought mebbe I could buy me a ride along with ’em and get away from Amarillo. In Wichita Falls, things blew up in my face when Hunnicutt and his pards tried to collect the bounty on me. And that’s all there is to it, Skillet, I swear.”
The big man worked a spell before glancing up. “You got a big reputation to live down, Nash. With Wells Fargo, I mean.”
Nash shrugged. “I have no argument with Wells Fargo. Wasn’t them who outlawed me. It was McAllister.”
“So he’s on your list for killin’?”
“Mebbe. But I’d rather not get that close to him. If he’s comin’ he won’t be alone. I don’t fancy tryin’ to outrun a whole troop of soldiers.”
“He’s alone this time. So far,” Hunnicutt said from behind Nash.
Nash arched his eyebrows, looking closely at Skillet. “He likely sent for help then. So I’d rather not stick around.”
“No, I s’pose not,” Skillet agreed. “You got any idea how these fellers could’ve arranged for the guns to be smuggled out of Texas? I mean, they watch all the state lines and the Mexican border like hawks for anything like that ...”
Nash smiled crookedly. “Guess it depends on where the arms are bound for. If they’re to be taken into the Indian Territory across the river there, I reckon there’d be no better way to get a small shipment of rifles across right under the noses of lawmen and army patrols than hidin’ ’em inside bundles of salted buffalo hides.” He paused. “Like those stacked over yonder near the presses.”
Skillet grinned. “Wondered when you’d notice.”
“Got to wonderin’ why you didn’t take ’em to Wichita Falls to sell with the others. Figured you must be smugglin’ somethin’ or other, but I didn’t pick it to be the guns.”
“Well, mebbe you’re right and mebbe not. What’s more important is
whether I’m right about you or not.”
Nash looked puzzled. “Me? Hell, I just told you how it is. I aim to stay alive. I’m finished with Wells Fargo. I’ve been a loner most of my life so I don’t see any problem. I’ll do whatever I have to to survive.”
Skillet studied him closely for a long while, then sat back, took out his chewing tobacco and bit off a chunk. Skinners and hunters were beginning to come into camp along the trail.
“Guess I better make a decision right here and now,” Skillet said. “By accident or design you stumbled your way into the group whose job it is to get those guns out of Texas. Brazos’ bunch pulled that Pueblo River raid and Jeff was there, too. But I’m boss up on the Red River, which is why Lew Hunnicutt and Bull had to learn they couldn’t go actin’ on their own, tryin’ to collect a reward on you. I didn’t want the law in this neck of the woods just when I’m ready to move with the guns. I killed ’em to keep the rest in line.” He looked coldly at the pale Jeff Hunnicutt. “If you hadn’t beat Jeff’s brains out, I’d’ve done it. Only I’d’ve used a wagon tongue. He don’t know how lucky he was gettin’ off so light.” Skillet spat. “But I better move them guns pronto now. They been settin’ around here too long.”
“Can I help?” Nash asked.
Skillet nodded curtly. “Can always use a real fast gun like you. Once we hit the Territory, I’ll need all the protection I can get. A lot of outlaws’d like to get their hands on them guns. Once past the army patrols, you can ride with us or go it alone. Your decision. But if you stay, you go all the way. No backin’ down. You see them guns clear to their destination, savvy?”
“And after that?”
“There’ll be more jobs. We can set you up where the law can’t get at you. But when you’re needed you better come runnin’. Now it’s your turn to make a quick decision, Nash. The others are almost here.”
“I’m with you all the way,” Nash said without hesitation. “Only question is, when do we move?”
“Tonight. We got some riggin’ up to do to the keelboats and work to do on the stack of hides. We need cover, so we move at night. Put down the rifle, Jeff. We gotta start trustin’ him right away.”
Hunnicutt scowled but lowered the rifle. “I wouldn’t trust him any further’n I could spit into a headwind,” he growled.
Skillet laughed and Nash gave a grin, hoping it hid the tension he felt inside.
Chapter Nine – Bound for Shiloh
It had been a long time since Jim Hume had done any field work. Wells Fargo was calling for more and more detailed reports of late, and he hadn’t had much chance to get out from behind his desk. Perhaps this was why he wasn’t as alert as he might have been only months ago, when he often had a chance to take an active part in assignments.
But he was alert enough to see the campfire down in the draw and he figured it had to be Josh McAllister’s camp. He had been slowly overhauling the man all day. He had expected to reach him before sundown but had taken a wrong turn and wound up in a box canyon, making him lose considerable time.
So it was full dark before he spotted the campfire.
Hume rode slowly into the draw and saw a black horse ground-hitched below. He had been told that McAllister was forking a black. The army officer had apparently turned in early for his heaped blankets were at the edge of the circle of light from the fire.
Hume was about to call out before riding in when a rifle cracked out of the darkness and he was slammed out of the saddle by the lead that smashed into his thick body. His horse veered off with a frightened whinny, and Hume, stunned and acting through pure instinct, dragged himself behind a rock and drew his Colt. The rifle sounded again and the bullet struck sparks from the flinty rock in front of Hume’s face. He snapped a shot at the gun flash and the rifle answered instantly. Hume’s hat spun away into the darkness.
He had been hit somewhere in the lower torso. His whole upper body was numb but his hand found warm wetness on his right side low down. The bullet had either skidded along his ribs or had gone in deep and was lodged somewhere in him for he could not find an exit wound.
The rifle hammered three fast shots, raking his shelter, and he crouched, stone chips and dirt stinging his face.
“McAllister!” he called. “It’s me—Jim Hume!”
There was silence broken only by the ragged breathing of his horse a few yards away as it watched the scene with pricked ears, ready to run if danger threatened. Hume strained to catch other sounds. He heard water moving and knew that the river was just over the next ridge. They had told him in Wichita Falls that McAllister planned to follow the river into buffalo country.
“By Godfrey, I believe it really is you, Hume!”
Jim Hume jumped up and tried to whirl around to see the man who had spoken from behind him and off to the right, but the sudden knifing pain in his side took his breath away and he groaned involuntarily.
“Hell, man, did I nail you?” Captain Josh McAllister knelt beside Hume, setting down his rifle after a quick look around. “You’re alone, I take it?”
Hume was unable to speak because of the pain, but he nodded, his lips drawn back from his teeth.
“Better get you into the light,” McAllister said.
Hume cried out in agony as the army man grabbed him by the wrists, pulled his arms over his head and dragged him bodily into the camp. The Wells Fargo detective suddenly lost consciousness. When he came round he saw everything through a mist. The fire had been built up and McAllister hunkered down nearby, arms resting on his bent knees, staring at Hume.
“What’re you doin’ here, Hume?”
“Hell, man, can’t you do anything to patch me up? I’m bleedin’ like a stuck hog!”
“You’ll be all right. It ain’t serious. Anyhow, you only got yourself to blame ridin’ up on me that way.”
Hume nodded tightly. “Guess so, but—”
“You ain’t said what you’re doin’ here.”
Hume frowned, looking sharply at the army captain. “I was trying to catch up with you before you got Nash killed.”
McAllister raised his eyebrows. “Got him killed?”
“You’re pushin’ too hard, damn it! I know you had to make a show of gettin’ up here fast when they said he escaped custody in Wichita Falls, but I know Clay—he’s likely in with the gang by now. They might even have busted him loose. But if you follow too close behind they’ll kill him just so’s you’ll get off their trail, or maybe they’ll figure it’s a set-up and he’s still workin’ with you. Both ways he’s dead meat.”
McAllister scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “You could be right,” he admitted slowly.
“Glad you finally see it my way. Would’ve thought it was clear enough right from the start that you followin’ so close would only endanger Clay.”
“Oh, it was, Hume. It was.”
Hume stared hard at McAllister, trying to hold on to his consciousness, thinking that maybe his ears were playing tricks. “Then why the hell did you …?” He broke off abruptly when the truth hit him.
McAllister smiled crookedly. “Took you longer than I figured, Hume. But you’ve got it now, huh?”
Jim Hume nodded. “You’re the one behind it all! You organized that raid to steal the guns!”
“Yep,” McAllister said. “Had to go along with the army’s idea of outlawin’ Nash so he could break into the gang, but I fixed it so’s bounty hunters’d be after him, figurin’ they’d kill him and solve the problem for me. I sure didn’t want a man with his rep lookin’ into the deal, but then I didn’t know one of the way station guards would be a friend of his either. Or just how good he was with a gun.” McAllister paused and laughed briefly. “To make it worse, I hadn’t managed to get word to my men up on the Red River about Nash, and then that stupid Hunnicutt actually tried to collect the reward on him.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Damn greedy son of a bitch! I’m tryin’ to get to my men before they’re taken in completely by Nash. It was a longer trail than I figured,
and I wasn’t expectin’ you.”
McAllister got up abruptly and stretched the kinks out of his limbs.
Hume gasped. “You tried to shotgun Nash in the cell!”
“Yeah. Not that it matters now. It’s trail’s end for you, Hume. You savvy that, don’t you?”
Hume didn’t reply. When McAllister knelt on one knee beside him and jerked his head up by twisting his fingers in Hume’s thinning hair, he saw that the Wells Fargo man was already unconscious.
The captain grunted. Fine with him. He caught Hume’s horse, brought it back and heaved Hume’s body over the saddle, then he took up the reins and led the horse slowly out of the camp, up the slope to the knoll and down to the river beyond.
He stopped the horse on a high point, dragged Hume off the saddle and heaved him over the edge.
The Wells Fargo chief of detectives plummeted down into the rushing water, hit with a splash and bobbed to the surface, still not moving. McAllister stood on the point, watching with a tight grin as Jim Hume’s body was borne swiftly away.
Finally he turned and led the horse back towards his camp on the other side of the knoll.
There were five men in the night patrol on the south bank of the Red River. The sergeant in charge was a tough man named Dooley. Besides their horses the patrol had a raft at their disposal that they poled out to mid-stream to check keelboats or rafts floating downstream with buffalo hunters or others aboard. But they didn’t check every raft and keelboat, only some.
However, they picked on the keelboat operated by Skillet and Jeff Hunnicutt as it moved sluggishly downstream, the gunwales not much above the water under the weight of two huge compressed piles of hides. There was a moon and the water was silvered, showing the slowly-moving keelboat as a stark silhouette. Two men in buckskins used poles to keep the boat from hitting the south bank on the curve of the river.
Dooley and two of his men set out on the raft to intercept, the two soldiers on shore watching with rifles cocked. The raft cut across the keelboat’s bows.