Clay Nash 10

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  When Chip Benedict’s gang stole the borax mine payroll, it wasn’t so much a robbery as a massacre. They left twelve bodies behind them … including two people who’d meant a whole lot to Wells Fargo special agent Clay Nash. From that moment on, Clay lived only for one thing – to track down the Benedict gang and make sure every man-jack of them paid the price … bullet by bullet.

  But sometimes vengeance isn’t quite so clear-cut. Clay shot it out with five men, only to learn that there was a sixth one out there, somewhere. A sixth man who would get away free and clear unless Clay could find him and use the sixth bullet in the chamber of his Colt to put him down for keeps.

  There was a price to pay for the borax mine robbery … a price that was higher than anything Clay or his opponent could possible imagine.

  CLAY NASH 10

  BULLET BY BULLET

  By Brett Waring

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Sm ashwords Edition: June 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Chapter One

  The Lone Trail

  Clay Nash hit the man behind the head with the butt of his gun so hard that he distinctly heard the skull crack.

  He hadn’t intended to kill the guard, only to knock him out for a spell. This way he would know for sure that the man could not raise the alarm before he got into the hidden canyon where the rest of the outlaw gang were camped.

  The wind was cold and howled dismally between the rocks on the rim. It made a kind of keening, whistling sound through the pine trees, shaking the cones, jarring loose some needles to add to the thick carpet already underfoot. It had been this layer of pine needles which had allowed Nash to creep up behind the dozing guard.

  Clutching his rifle and pulling the jerkin more tightly around his neck, the Wells Fargo special operative stepped over the dying man and eased around the big boulders the man had been using as shelter. The wind cut into him slashing like a knife, penetrating his thin clothing and chilling him to the bone. His fingers were numb around the rifle and he swore, hoping they wouldn’t freeze-up when he needed them.

  He thrust the short barrel of the Winchester carbine through the waistband of his trousers and pushed both hands under his arms then moved down the slope from the rim.

  Four hours previously, he had been hammered by a blistering sun on the plains on the far side of the range. Even following the lonely, faint trail through the rocky canyon country, the heat had bounced back from the high walls and rasped his skin. He hadn’t come prepared for a high trail and the evening chill was settling fast. His ears felt ready to snap off his nostrils were damp and his cheeks numbed. Eight thousand feet up—he hadn’t been expecting the trail to take such a sudden lift. It was only pure luck that had led him to the sign. Climbing down to prise a stone from his horse’s left fore-shoe, he had noticed a cigarette stub lying among the rocks. It was not badly weathered, though it was dry enough to have been there for a few hours.

  Partly up the slope above the cigarette butt he had discovered a hoof print in a patch of earth that had even shown the nail-head marks. So the way had to be up. By mid-afternoon, he had come onto the rim and spotted the lifting spiral of campfire smoke rising out of the hidden canyon. At the same time, afternoon sunlight had struck blinding flashes from metal, halfway around the rim.

  Waiting until the shadows had lengthened, deep, dark and purple, Clay Nash had ground-hitched his mount, crawled across the face of the slope away from the canyon, and had approached the guard from behind.

  Now all he had to do was nail the other four members of Pardoe’s hellions and the assignment would be over. He hoped he would be able to recover the stolen money that had been in the strongbox they had taken from the Wells Fargo stage three days previously. They hadn’t had time to spend it; they had been on the run since the hold-up. Nash and a posse had seen to that. But now this was obviously their hideout and they would be feeling safe, ready to divide the loot. It was a good time to move in.

  Still shivering with the bite of the wind, Nash made his way down the shadowed side of the canyon and wondered why he wasn’t being protected from the winds. He had his answer after dropping another twenty feet and rounding a jutting, outcrop of sandstone. The canyon mouth was only half a mile off and it was open to the sierras beyond. The Colorado Rockies could be damn near as cold as the North Pole at times, he thought grimly, clamping his arms more tightly over his fingers. He moved awkwardly with the rifle jutting out of the back of his trousers, but he had no choice.

  Warming his hands this way, however, almost spelt the end of him. His ankle twisted under him not far from the crude clapboard shack on the small rise of rock-studded earth. Before he could get his balance or throw his arms out to save himself, he fell. He hit hard enough to wind himself, and his scrabbling feet sent rocks clashing together. The noise was plainly audible above the shriek of the wind. Nash rolled onto his side and yanked hard to get his carbine free of his waistband. The foresight hooked under his belt edge and he had to struggle to rip it free.

  By that time, a bearded face had appeared in the doorway and he caught the glint of metal. It was Pardoe.

  The man’s gun boomed and sand kicked into Nash’s face as he rolled swiftly, levered his rifle, and triggered fast. Lead splintered the flimsy door as Pardoe kicked it shut. Inside, he could hear the crash of furniture and the wild yells of a number of men.

  Nash spun to where the getaway mounts were running about inside a crude rope corral. He took a fast bead and fired—his bullet clipping the big knot of the rope on the flimsy stake that supported it. The rope parted. He put two shots among the animals’ feet and they jumped the slackened rope and took off in a wild run—streaming between himself and the hut.

  Clay Nash leapt to his feet and ran forward, dodging the wild-eyed horses and using their dust cloud as cover. The outlaws wouldn’t be expecting a rush by one man—he hoped.

  The Wells Fargo man hit the door with the sole of his boot, smashing the latch and slamming the planks against the inner wall. He went in, crouching, rifle butt braced into his hip, yelling wildly to add to the chaos, triggering and levering. His eyes darted about the room, picking out deeper, moving shadows in the gloom.

  Clay dropped the carbine, palmed his six-gun, did a shoulder-roll and came up with the muzzle against a soft belly. He dropped the hammer and a man screamed.

  A gun roared almost in his ear and he threw himself flat—shooting wildly. There was an answering gun flash and he felt the hammer blow of lead hitting him somewhere in the body, spinning him against the wall.

  Although he felt dizzy, he could see his target well enough moving for the door and he lifted the Colt, seemingly in slow motion, beaded his man, and dropped the hammer. It was Pardoe. The outlaw boss went down across the porch half in and half out of the shack. He sobbed in agony, heaved onto his back and started to bring his gun up for a last shot at Nash.

  The Wells Fargo man shot him coldly, the bullet striking Pardoe under the chin
and tearing off the top of his skull. His body convulsed as Nash let his gun sag heavily to the floor. He coughed in the choking powdersmoke, looked around with hazy vision. There seemed to be bodies everywhere. Someone was moaning in pain. It took him a long time to realize it was himself.

  His fingers probed gingerly around his left side. The wound was about halfway between his hip and armpit. The bullet seemed to have entered under his ribs and to have exited beneath his shoulder blade. It looked as though the ribcage had deflected the lead but there seemed to be a deep gouge and lots of blood.

  First thing to do was to make sure the outlaws were dead, then he could take his time and doctor himself. Then all he had to do was climb back out of the canyon, toting the stagecoach dinero, hopefully, and get down the mountainside to where he had left his horse. He began to laugh, a mite off-key; drunk with the stupidity caused by increasing pain. But one thought was clear in his fogging brain as he crawled about the shack: he would be damn lucky to make it out alive.

  The way-station at Reddings, Colorado, was a new one. The raw logs of the main building and the unpainted clapboards of the barns and stables gleamed yellow in the bright sun.

  There were three roustabouts working to complete the permanent corral: the newly-gathered mules for the team changes, and the horses, were kept in a temporary enclosure. The animals were restless for there was little room to move about. The sooner the big log corral was completed the better, thought old Jed Summers as he came to the door of the main outpost, puffing on his pipe, and squinting in the noon sunlight. He turned his head at a sound behind him and saw his daughter, Mary, coming across what was to be the big dining room for passengers en route to Denver. He moved and took the heavy pail of dirty water from her as she leaned a mop against the doorjamb and blew out her cheeks.

  “Phew! I think that ought to suit even Jim Hume—our esteemed Chief of Detectives,” she said with a smile. “He’s a nice enough man, Pa, but I wish he would stick to detecting, and forget about putting in cleanliness reports every time he passes through an out-station.”

  “Well, it ain’t certain that he’ll be comin’ through this one next week, Mary,” Jed told her. “It’s just a rumor that come up the trail—together with that other one about the biggest payroll ever for the borax mines in Fire Springs. If one’s true, I guess the other is, for Hume’ll check out the trail first, you can bet on that.” He paused and winked as his smile broadened. “Or, with a little luck, he might send his best operative on ahead to do the chore for him. What’s that feller’s name again ?”

  She colored a little and nudged him as his eyes twinkled.

  “Well, it’s a long time since I’ve seen Clay, Pa. His last letter was from New Mexico and it was months out of date.”

  Jed sobered, seeing how much his daughter missed Nash. He liked Clay and wouldn’t mind at all if the crack operative asked Mary to marry him. But he couldn’t see it. Clay Nash liked the lonely trails too much; he was good at his job, and he didn’t mind riding into danger. He had once told Jed that he wouldn’t reckon it fair to ask any woman to marry him.

  Jed Summers had thought at the time that it might have been Nash’s way of saying that while he admired Mary plenty and would like to marry her if he were an ordinary cowboy, he wouldn’t expect her to share the kind of life he had chosen to lead. He had never told Mary this, for he knew she still held hopes of one day being Nash’s wife. Well, one day, maybe, he conceded.

  When he looked at his daughter his eyes were warm with affection.

  “Clay’ll turn up when we least expect him, daughter,” Jed told her quietly.

  “Ain’t it always been like that?” Mary sighed. “I guess you’re right. Pa. Well, I suppose I’d better start hanging the curtains and get everything spick and span for when the first stage comes rolling through.”

  “I’ll go haze them roustabouts along some,” Jed answered, stepping down from the porch with the bucket of slop water. “If they don’t hurry up with that big corral, we’re gonna lose some mules.”

  He tossed the water out of the pail, set it upside down to drain and walked on across the hot yard, puffing on his pipe and trailed by small clouds of blue smoke. Mary watched him for a moment, then, briefly scanning the horizon, she pushed the hair off her forehead and turned into the way-station.

  Nash had managed to get out of the canyon, but he was nearly out of his mind with pain. He had only vague recollections or climbing up the slope and away from the bullet-riddled shack. Most of the journey was a hazy series of pictures; of the ground sliding past his face only inches away as he crawled on all fours, dragging himself up the slope; of the snow streaming from the peaks that towered against the cold blue sky; of the strangeness of near-delirium—seeing that he was one step removed from reality. But the pain in his wound was real enough. So was the weakness caused by the loss of blood.

  The only antiseptic he could find in the shack had been a bottle of moonshine liquor with a kick like a bolt of lightning. He had screamed in pain after pouring some into the open wound and his teeth had chewed holes in his bottom lip. It had been a while before he was able to rip up some calico flour sacking and make a thick pad to cover the wound. Then he had bound it tightly into place with strips of blanket and finally buttoned his shirt and jerkin over the bulging cloth.

  For a time, it had stopped the bleeding. Once he had started to climb, however, it had opened up again and he could feel the pad sliding over his flesh. He had stayed the night in the shack, figuring he would never make it out of the canyon in the dark, and he had huddled under old blankets and sacks for warmth. Even with the sun slanting down on him, he felt bitterly cold, a sort of inward chill that gripped his innards.

  When he finally collapsed on the rim, moaning and dreaming wild things, he didn’t know he was out of the canyon. Things were too fuzzy for that. But, when his senses cleared, he opened aching eyes and looked down the slope to where he had tethered his mount. It was still there, patiently waiting, cropping at the thick grass patch.

  It was like a tonic to him. His eyes focused on the big canteen hanging from the saddlehorn and he ran his dry tongue, across his bitten lips, hauled himself onto his shaky legs and felt the warmth of the midday sun against his face.

  As he staggered down the slope, making little, unsteady runs from rock to rock, something in his mind clicked: the Rockies’ foothills—a place called Giddings—no, that was in Texas—Reddings—yeah, that was it—Reddings—a new way-station.

  All he had to do was find it.

  Staggering on down the slope, Nash knew it wouldn’t be easy. It would be hellish damn hard. But he would do it. He had to.

  His life depended on it.

  Chapter Two

  Gathering of the Pack

  Dan Barrett was nervous when he went into the bank in Sage Bend. He didn’t like the sounds of it, being summoned by the manager or president or whatever title Hopkins wanted to give himself. Barrett was big and husky, his step springy with youth and muscular tone. His neck was thick, his shoulders beefy, and the thrust of his square jaw gave him an aggressive look that, at times—such as now—effectively disguised his nervousness.

  He pushed his hat to the back of his damp, fair hair and opened his thick, woolen, homespun jacket as he walked up to the reception area and told the hook-nosed old maid with the pince-nez glasses behind the table that Mr. Hopkins wanted to see him.

  “You’re late,” she returned. “Mr. Hopkins said twelve noon. It’s now almost one.”

  “Hoss went lame on me, ma’am,” he told her truthfully, coloring a little, for she snapped loudly enough to turn the heads of the clerks and customers. He could feel them staring at his reddening neck: he was still young enough for that sort of thing to bother him. “Anyway,” he added, forcing a bright note into his voice. “I’m here now, ma’am—”

  “Take a seat over there,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a form against one wall. “Mr. Hopkins is about to take his lunch.
You’ll have to wait until he’s finished now.”

  “I dunno as I can do that,” Barrett said quietly. “You know how far out my ranch is. I don’t like leavin’ my wife an’ daughter alone—and if I have to wait around, I mightn’t get back before dark.”

  She looked at him coldly over the tops of the pince-nez. “You should’ve been on time. Mr. Hopkins’ time is valuable. He can’t re-shuffle his daily schedule just to suit you, Mr. Barrett. I wish you would sit down.”

  Barrett’s jaws clamped and he thought of walking out, and telling her to go to hell—and Hopkins, too—but he controlled himself. Since marrying Eadie, he was getting better at controlling the blazing temper that had been the cause of so much trouble for him in earlier years. He mangled his hat in his big hands and this was the only outward sign that he was boiling dangerously inside. Barrett stomped over to the form and sat down.

  He rolled a cigarette and ignored the disapproving look that the old maid gave him. He deliberately flicked the vesta on the floor after he had lit up—his eyes daring her to complain. She opened her narrow mouth but thought better of it, snapped her fingers at a junior clerk and told the young girl to provide an ashtray. The young rancher gave her a cold, meaningless smile.

  “I ain’t waitin’ long,” he said flatly.

  “Mr. Hopkins wishes to see you on a matter of some importance—otherwise he would not have sent all the way out to your ranch for you. Now that you are here, you might as well wait to see him.”

  “I ain’t waitin’ long,” Barrett repeated. “I want to be home by dark.”

  Half an hour later, Barrett walked to her desk.

  “I’m goin’,” he said.

  She looked at him disapprovingly.

  “You can’t. Mr. Hopkins hasn’t finished lunch yet.”

  “Well, I’m hungry, too. Maybe he can share with me, seein’ as he wants to talk with me so bad.”