Clay Nash 20

by Brett Waring

  “Army patrol here, so don’t get froggy!” Dooley called out, pistol in hand.

  As the raft nudged the keelboat against the shore, Dooley jumped aboard and his two men dropped their poles, tied up to the keelboat and followed, bringing rifles with them. Dooley looked at the huge, bearded Skillet and the smaller Hunnicutt coming towards him.

  “Kind of close in, ain’t you?” Dooley said, running his eyes over the two men and motioning for a soldier to bring up a bull’s-eye lantern. “And you’re travelin’ without lights.”

  Skillet grinned in the light from the lantern. “Hit us a submerged rock or log or somethin’ ’bout a mile upstream, Sarge. Busted our rudder, which is why we’re weavin’ all over this damn river, and we also lost our travelin’ lights overboard.”

  Dooley looked at him suspiciously, then nodded to his men to check the load. “You ain’t s’posed to be on the river this time of night.”

  “Hell, we can’t do much about it. Nowheres to stop upstream. Injuns are linin’ the north bank clear down from Britches Ford to Powder Bend. They were sportin’ paint on their faces and we weren’t about to take any chances.”

  “Injuns?” said Dooley, startled. “News to me.”

  “Well, they’re there, amigo, so we decided to push along for Wichita Falls and take our chances on the river instead of the shore. We saw a camp up a creek but couldn’t get in there with a busted rudder.”

  Dooley regarded both men soberly as his men returned after inspecting the hides.

  “They’re pressed together hard as iron, Sarge,” one man said.

  “Sure as hell are,” Jeff Hunnicutt said. “We don’t get down here often and we like to tote in as many hides as we can.”

  “Where are you fellers workin’?” Dooley asked.

  “West of the Llano. Found us a good stand there.”

  “Helluva long way out,” the sergeant said.

  “You go where the buff is,” Skillet said. “Listen, Sarge, we’d like to get underway. If we keep goin’ we’ll be at Wichita Falls come sun-up and then we’ll get rid of the hides early and have the day in town.”

  Dooley studied them closely for a moment and then grinned. “With your pockets full of money, eh? And you’ll spend it all in The Cave or one of the cathouses, right?”

  Skillet punched the man lightly on the upper arm. “Well, you know how it is when you’re a long time away from the bright lights, Sarge. You savvy how a man feels when he’s full of sap.”

  Dooley laughed. “Reckon I do. All right. We’ll give you a push off, and I hope you get a good price.”

  “If I come back this way,” Skillet called out as the army men jumped back on their raft, “I’ll bring a jug of sour mash for you boys!”

  “We’ll hold you to that!” Dooley yelled.

  The soldiers used their rafts’ poles to heave the bow of the keelboat off the shingle and then they pushed against its sides until the boat was floating deep enough for Skillet and Jeff Hunnicutt to pole into the current.

  The heavily laden boat moved slowly downstream and the soldiers poled their rafts back to shore.

  Downstream and around the bend, out of sight of the patrol, Skillet went to the side of one of the piles of hides, counted seven up from the bottom and tugged hard. A whole section slid away and he drew out a perfectly sound rudder with a tiller bar and pintles. He assembled the rudder while the boat moved into the deep water of midstream, where Hunnicutt threw the broken rudder off the stern. They fitted the sound rudder and immediately the keelboat trembled with life and they were able to steer against the pressure of the current. Skillet took over, standing on the very edge of the stern, looking for landmarks.

  Against the stars and the moonwashed sky he picked out a broken boulder and moved the tiller, yelling at Hunnicutt to push with the pole on the left side until he lined up with the second mark, a tall pine on top of a small headland. He held as straight a course as he could and twenty minutes later ran the nose of the keelboat onto the coarse sand of a small cove.

  Hunnicutt jumped ashore and ran a line from the bow to a tree. On board, Skillet moved to the second pile of hides, felt around the edges, found the piece of curled hide protruding and heaved. A whole section swung out and he spoke into the pitch blackness of the cavity:

  “Okay, amigo, out you come. You just cross the big river and right now you’re in Injun Territory.”

  Fumbling, Clay Nash slid his legs out of the opening and Skillet helped him onto the narrow gunwale where he balanced against the tall stack of hides. He was drenched with sweat, as wet as if he had fallen into the river. He coughed and spat.

  “Like the inside of a cow, only it stinks worse!” he growled.

  Skillet laughed. “Wouldn’t know, amigo. Never been inside a cow.”

  Nash looked at him soberly. “I have. In a blizzard not too far from here when I was a kid. The old man knew we couldn’t get through the snow so he killed the cow we had with our wagon, gutted it, and stuffed me and my sister inside while it was still warm. We lived through the blizzard and were found next mornin’ by the rest of the wagon train. The old man was frozen hard as stone, setting out there guardin’ us in the cow, blankets wrapped around him, gun in hand. Had to knock the gun from his hand with a hammer and I used it for huntin’ for a long time ...”

  Skillet nodded. “They were hard times, the early days of settlement out here. But you’re free and runnin’ now, Nash. Law’s south of the river and they got no jurisdiction here.”

  “Tell that to a marshal’s bullet when he’s shootin’ at you,” Nash said.

  Skillet laughed. “Cheer up, amigo. We’re on our way to Shiloh. Jeff, open up that fake door in the other set of hides and get out the guns. The boys’ll be here at sunup with the horses.”

  “Mighty smart idea hollowing out the inside of those pressed hides,” Nash said, wondering if he would ever get rid of the stench of buffalo.

  Skillet beamed with pride. “My idea. Quite a few fugitives made it across the Red into the Territory in them hides. A lot of guns, too.”

  “Who get’s ’em eventually?” Nash asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Whoever can pay.”

  “This time?”

  Skillet looked at Nash steadily and was silent for a time. Then he said, “Guess it won’t hurt you to know now. A bunch of Sioux located gold on their land, lots of gold. They’ll pay plenty for a repeater rifle. They’ll pay even more for one of these quick-firers.” He winked. “And they’ll pay even more again for the magazines. Without the clips, the rifles can be used only for single shots.”

  Nash stiffened. “You’re holdin’ out on the bullet clips?”

  Skillet shrugged. “They found a whole mountain of gold. We aim to get as much of it as we can.”

  Nash pursed his lips. “Mighty dangerous, holdin’ out on the Sioux.”

  “It worked before and it’ll work this time,” Skillet said confidently. “C’mon, let’s give Jeff a hand.”

  As they worked, Nash said, “You ain’t told me where—or what—this Shiloh is.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” was all Skillet would say.

  They unloaded the boxes of guns, cartridges and magazine clips and waited in the trees.

  Just before dawn three men rode out of the river mist leading mounts and pack animals.

  Nash stood up as one of the riders approached. He dropped a hand to his gun butt as he recognized the man.

  It was Brazos Lane.

  Chapter Ten – Shiloh Noon

  Yellow Rose squatted before the low, pyramid-shaped smokehouse and stoked up the small fire burning there, squinting against the pungent smoke.

  Inside, Nash’s buckskin shirt was draped over a beam. She had just turned it over after it had been in there most of the night. Now, in the early morning, the hickory leaves and bark had burned away and she saw there was no more near the smokehouse in the small hollow beyond the Indian camp.

  Some of her people were at t
heir cooking fires for breakfast. She had heard the buffalo shooters ride out earlier, wanting to reach their stands before the sun was too high and the buffalo could spot them easily. The beasts’ vision was at its poorest in the early morning and later afternoon light.

  Yellow Rose picked up her horn-handled work knife and padded away on bare feet towards the creek. She knew the nearest hickory grove was at the junction of the creek with the big river and she hurried along so she could collect some bark and leaves and be back at camp in time to start her hide-scraping chores for the day.

  Mist curled up from the damp ground and she saw deer fading back into the brush, disturbed by her passage, and smiled. If she had a gun and was hunting, she could have venison for dinner tonight. But Rose wanted only to get the hickory bark and leaves so she could finish Nash’s shirt. It was a good garment and she was proud of it; she had chewed it twice as long as others she had made so that it was beautifully soft. The second smoking would ensure that it was waterproof and it would give the buckskin a mellow color. She had even put a pocket in the shirt and taken care that the fringing hung evenly.

  Rose stopped abruptly as she rounded the bend where the creek met the big river.

  Something dark and bulky was on the sandbar.

  The mist parted and she saw that her suspicions were confirmed. It was a man’s body, a white man, hatless. An arm moved slightly but she couldn’t be sure whether it was caused by the current or there was still life in the man.

  Rose didn’t hesitate. She stepped into the cold water and hurried to the man. Grabbing a thick arm and straining, she dragged him along the sandbar to a dry patch. Panting, she sagged down to the sand beside him and looked into his water-creased face, figuring he had been in the water for several hours. She saw the blood staining his shirt and, through a rip in the cloth, the raw edges of a bullet wound.

  She leaned over and slapped his face gently, sure that his chest had moved. After a time the man’s eyes opened and he stared up at her blankly.

  Then suddenly his right hand shot out and grabbed her arm with surprising strength, bringing a gasp from her as she was pulled down close to the pain-etched face. Her hand gripped the horn handle of her knife. Then his other hand reached out to touch the silver belt tip dangling around her neck.

  Jim Hume’s lips moved. He made guttural sounds in his throat before she was able to understand what he was asking her.

  “Do you ... know ... Clay Nash ...?”

  Brazos Lane seemed to be favoring his left side as he sat saddle, Nash thought, forking his own mount back near the pack animals that carried the boxes of guns. He wondered if Lane had been wounded in the shoot-out back in Amarillo.

  Lane rode at the head of the small cavalcade, leading the way through tall timber in a northerly direction. Lane had brought two men with him, a pair of true hard cases. Nash was sure that one of them was wanted in Texas for murder and robbery.

  Hunnicutt rode on the other side of the pack horses and seemed to be keeping an eye on Nash. Up front, Lane worked his mount close to Skillet’s.

  “How come you brought Nash along?”

  “Fast with a gun. On the dodge. He’ll be a good recruit.”

  Lane snapped his head around. “Are you loco?”

  Skillet frowned as he stared back at Lane. “What are you tellin’ me, Brazos?”

  “Ain’t you seen McAllister yet?”

  The bearded man shook his head. “Nope. Wasn’t s’posed to, not till we reach Shiloh leastways. Why?”

  Lane swore. “Judas, then you dunno!”

  “Dunno what for hell’s sake?”

  “Nash. He’s workin’ undercover for Wells Fargo!”

  Skillet curled a lip and shook his head. “No, he ain’t. He told me the full story about treadin’ on the army’s toes, startin’ to investigate after bein’ told not to. Also, a pard of his was killed in that Pueblo River raid. The feller in the tower. Your meat, weren’t he?”

  “That’s all hogwash, Skillet! He took you in. McAllister arrived after Nash cleared Amarillo. He told me the whole idea was to make it look like Nash was on the prod and disobeyin’ orders and was to be kicked out of Wells Fargo. But after Nash tangled with them three soldiers near Lubbock, McAllister got out wanted dodgers on him and I blamed Nash for killin’ Tanner. It made it look like McAllister was givin’ Nash good cover for working his way into our organization—and by Judas he did work his way in! He flimflammed you, Skillet!”

  The big man’s teeth clamped together. “Don’t look back at him and let him know anything’s wrong,” he said. “You’re right, Brazos, he did flimflam me. Convinced me he was really on the dodge.” He swore. “Damn it, McAllister should’ve gotten word to me long before this so I’d know what to expect!”

  “Nash out-foxed him, I guess,” Lane said. “McAllister had his own front to keep up, remember, and I guess that delayed him some. You want me to drop back and put a bullet through Nash?”

  Skillet shook his head. “No. I don’t like bein’ took in ’specially by an undercover lawman. Let him be for now. Nothin’ he can do here. I’ll figure somethin’ special for him.” He suddenly grinned. “He told me his pappy once stuffed him inside a fresh-killed cow in a blizzard. Wonder how he might like bein’ stuffed into a fresh skinned buffler hide, wrapped round with wet green hide and left out in the sun—on top of an anthill?”

  Brazos Lane paled a little. “He’d be crushed slowly to death, wouldn’t he?”

  Skillet nodded. “Damn right! That green hide, both thong and buffler skin, would shrink and go iron-hard and the ants’d add to the agony by eatin’ him alive while his bones cracked one by one. The Sioux used it on their enemies and on any man who committed adultery in the first year of his marriage.”

  “I kind of like the sound of it,” Lane said, grinning now. “I’ve hated Nash’s guts for years. Be kind of nice to see him dyin’ slow that way.”

  “Yeah,” the big man said. “It’d be real comfortin’.”

  They camped that night by a stream on the edge of a plain that trembled under the hoofs of several big herds of buffalo.

  Supper was cooked and Skillet carried on a conversation with Nash as if nothing was wrong.

  “I’m still mighty curious about this Shiloh,” Nash said as he set aside his tin plate and took out tobacco and papers.

  Skillet wiped the back of his hairy wrist across his mouth and dragged his chewing tobacco plug from his vest pocket. He bit off a piece and leaned back against a rock, apparently completely at ease.

  Hunnicutt, Brazos Lane and the others moved about, repairing saddle gear, oiling guns and filling empty cartridge loops on gunbelts. They didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Nash and Skillet.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Nash,” Skillet said, “Shiloh’s a place that ain’t generally known or spoken about. Leastways, not outside of the Territory it ain’t.”

  Nash nodded, lit his cigarette and flicked the match into the campfire. Skillet spat and the brown stream sizzled against the red embers.

  “Figured that much,” Nash said.

  Skillet’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Smart hombre like you would. But Shiloh ain’t a town, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. It’s the name given to a mountain peak by the Sioux. Didn’t know it was an Injun name, did you? Well, mebbe it ain’t, I dunno about that part, but they used it for reasons best known to themselves when they named this peak. It gives a mighty fine view out across the plains, clear back to the Red River, and they can see an enemy approachin’ for miles around. It’s why they’ve never been rounded up and put on reservations like the other red-skins. Even the Apaches were herded onto reservations, but not these Texas Sioux. Right now Shiloh’s the place where they want to do business ’cause it’s their stampin’ ground and it gives ’em all the advantages.”

  Nash pursed his lips. “Seems like it’s more dangerous than ever to hold out on ’em.”

  “What can they do? If they want them magazine clips they’ll no
t only pay my price, they’ll come beggin’ to me for ’em. They got no choice.”

  “What if they jump you? I hear the Sioux have some mighty nasty ways of makin’ a man talk.”

  Skillet shook his head. “They won’t do it. They’re a proud race. They gave their word no one’ll be hurt and they’ll keep it no matter what. It’s only the white man who doesn’t honor his promises, Nash.” He laughed harshly. “Like you! Yeah, you—flimflammer!”

  While Skillet had been talking, holding Nash’s attention, Brazos Lane had worked his way behind the Wells Fargo man. Now, knowing the game was up, Nash jumped to his feet and his right hand flashed down to his gun.

  Fast as he was, he wasn’t fast enough.

  Brazos Lane swung his six-gun and the butt clipped Nash across the head, staggering him as he drew his Colt. Then Skillet’s long, tree-like leg shot out in a sweeping arc and jerked Nash’s legs out from under him. He fell heavily and Hunnicutt leapt in, swinging his gun barrel. It clipped Nash across the forehead and he brought his Colt around, triggering by pure instinct. Hunnicutt yelled and was blown back several feet as the bullet drove up through his body, taking him just below the arch of the ribs and smashing up through his heart and lungs to exit near the back of his neck. He was dead before his twitching body crashed to the ground.

  The sudden violence stunned the camp momentarily. Nash, dazed, but still acting by instinct, rolled away and started to get to his knees. Skillet drove a hard-soled buffalo leather boot against the side of his head and sent him sprawling. Brazos Lane stomped on his gun hand and kicked the Colt out of reach.

  They stood back and let Nash come out of it slowly, shaking his head, wiping blood from his face. He sat there, staring at the men.

  “What brought that on?” he gasped.

  “Should’ve of made sure of me back in Amarillo, Nash,” Brazos said. “I had time to see McAllister and he told me that you were workin’ undercover.”

  Nash stared, shocked. “McAllister ...?” Then he nodded slowly as the truth struck him. “Sure. It had to be him. He knew about the gun shipment. He set Tanner up as a red herring ...”