Clay Nash 19 Page 10

  He took his bone handled clasp knife and opened the drop point blade, holding it in the flames until it glowed. While it was cooling, he took some of the hot water, soaked his bandanna in it and washed the wound.

  Then he picked up the knife, bit deeply into the leather strap and placed the tip of the blade over the bulging flesh. His hand shook. He hesitated, willing his fingers to exert pressure and draw the razor edge of the blade through the flesh.

  Sweat broke from his face and ran down his chest. He wouldn’t be able to hold the half-twisted position for much longer: the wound was hurting too much.

  He pressed down and drew the blade back with a sudden, deep slash. A strangled moan escaped his lips as his teeth sank deeply into the leather as waves of pain washed through his body. He felt nauseated and lights burst before his eyes, but he couldn’t stop. He knew if he did he would never have enough courage to do it again. While the blood flowed and the flesh opened up, peeling back like a split banana skin, he pushed the blade tip beneath the lead slug and levered.

  Blinding pain exploded in his head ...

  When he came back to his senses, he was surprised to find he was lying sprawled on his blanket near the fire, the knife still clasped in his bloody hand, the wound pulsing more blood—but the bullet gleaming dully in the flickering light of the campfire.

  Weak and sickened and his body one throbbing mass of pain, Clay Nash rolled onto his back, groped for his wadded, damp bandanna and pressed it against the bleeding wound. He had previously torn his shirt tail into strips, and he reached for them with trembling fingers and wound them around his body, clamping the bandanna over the open wound. It hurt like hell but already there was relief of sorts.

  He lay on his back, gasping.

  He didn’t know how much later it was when he heard the bushes being parted at the entrance, but the sound filtered through his dazed senses and he managed to struggle to a half sitting position. His belly knotted as he saw the dark shape of a man silhouetted against the cave mouth.

  “You lousy son of a bitch, Nash!” growled Shell Shannon’s voice. “You never told me that the ransom was only painted lead.”

  Nash couldn’t hold the sitting position any longer, the pain was too great. A rising wave overwhelmed him and he fell to the side, unconscious.

  Nine – Law of the Bullet

  Daylight was filtering weakly into the cavern before Nash became fully conscious. He was surprised to find firm bandages about his midriff. The wound was mighty sore but there seemed to be a thick pad covering it.

  Shannon was hunkered by the banked fire in his usual position: long arms dangling over bent knees. He was staring disconcertingly at Nash as the Wells Fargo man surfaced properly after several half-conscious spells. He felt weak and a little dizzy but, although his side was stiff, he was able to move more easily.

  “Thanks for ... takin’ care of my wound,” he grated.

  Shannon lifted the coffee pot and poured some into a tin mug. He handed it to Nash who drank gratefully.

  “I oughta kill you,” Shannon said.

  Nash looked over the rim of the cup and smiled crookedly.

  “If I’d told you about the bullion, you wouldn’t’ve gone after it,” he said.

  “You bastard. You used me.”

  Nash shrugged. “You’re a good tracker, and handy with a gun. I sure wasn’t in any condition to track down Coe and his pards—I kind of figured you might be riled enough to come back complainin’.”

  Shannon glared. “Dunno why I didn’t put a bullet in you.”

  “You owed me. For breakin’ you out.”

  The killer scowled. “Yeah, well we’re squared-away now.”

  “Not quite. We got to deliver that fake bullion.”

  “You gotta. I don’t.”

  “I still need your help, Shannon.” Nash looked around and saw that Shannon had brought in his saddle. He crawled to the saddlebags and rummaged in them, then brought out a small tintype Farrell had given him. “Look at Mary Lee.”

  It was a clear photograph of the girl, an oval medallion showing her head and shoulders—her smiling, clear-eyed face, reflecting all the innocence of youth.

  Shannon sighed as he handed it back.

  “Could be she don’t look that way now. Not with Brewster.”

  Nash’s face was grim. “I know. We’ve got to get her away. Brewster’s gonna try to hold her to get at Farrell. And if he’s still got her when he realizes that gold’s only lead and brass ...”

  “Look, I don’t owe her or Farrell, or you a damn thing.”

  Nash smiled crookedly. “You’re still here.”

  Shannon shrugged. “Figured I might as well spend the night in comfort.”

  “Sure. Where’d you leave the mules and their load?”

  “Outside in the draw. They’re safe. But you’ll have to go it alone, Nash. I’m movin’ on while I can. They must have posses out lookin’ for me. I best clear this neck of the woods pronto.”

  “You’ll never make it alone. Shave that beard. Trim your hair. Stick with me. No one’ll be looking for you with a Wells Fargo detective.”

  Shannon bored his eyes into Nash. “What’s in it for me? Two grand? Lawyer has that. I wouldn’t be game to try to collect. You’ve got plans to return me to the pen. I got no future with you, Nash.”

  He stood and picked up the Remington-Hepworth. “Fine gun. I thank you for that. I’ll think of you next time I use it on some Governor I get paid to kill.” He laughed shortly at the look on Nash’s face. “You’ll have to square-up to Brewster yourself, Nash. I’m lightin’ out as of now.” He gestured to one of Nash’s saddlebags. “Use them sticks of dynamite you got in there. Or forget the whole thing. That little gal’s as good as dead—whatever you do. Adios.”

  He ducked his head and started out the door.

  “I couldn’t sleep unless I try to get her out, Shannon.” Nash called.

  The killer paused as he pushed the screening brush aside and then continued through it.

  Shortly afterwards, Nash heard Shannon ride out of the draw—and he cursed.

  There was something wrong. Coley Knight knew it as soon as he saw Nash enter the arroyo leading two mules, and stop only briefly to pick up the directions for getting to Tomahawk Canyon.

  Nash spotted the paper, all right, but he did little more than glance at it then placed it in his shirt pocket. He continued on, hauling the mules after him.

  That was when Coley Knight, none too bright at any time, figured there had to be something wrong. Nash was headed in the right direction, but he wasn’t supposed to know how to get to Tomahawk ... Brewster hadn’t given those directions in his notes to Farrell.

  Coley, of course, wasn’t to know that Shannon had described how to reach the place called Tomahawk when Nash had first mentioned the mysterious canyon was to be the rendezvous for paying over the ransom.

  Coley’s eyes went back to the mules as he crouched on the ridge, watching Nash wend his way through the arroyo. They plodded on, wearily, obviously weighed down by their heavy burdens. He ran a tongue over his lips. One hundred thousand dollars in gold. Man, he couldn’t even imagine it, not that much gold all in one hit.

  But he could imagine what that kind of money would buy and he tightened his grip on his rifle, his eyes narrowing as Nash made his way through a narrow angled section, dragging the mules up a loose slope.

  A hundred thousand dollars, Coley thought again—and only one man between him and all that gold. He was miles from Tomahawk. He could be a long way off before Largo Brewster even realized that Coley wasn’t coming back ... ever ...

  Largo was the one who had the wild hate for Farrell. He was plain loco: the gal had been a bit of fun but Coley didn’t really hold with treating women the way Largo had planned for Mary Lee ...

  He stopped the thoughts right there. Nash would be up that slope and around the bend if he hung about any longer. Coley Knight threw the rifle to his shoulder, took a quick bead and squ
eezed off two fast shots. They both hit the wall above Nash’s head and ricocheted across the narrow space, whining off the second wall before buzzing away. Nash had his six-gun palmed up in a flash, thankful that Shannon had left him his arms. He spotted Coley as the man moved to a better position and snapped off a shot.

  Nash spurred the mount forward, hauling on the mules’ ropes. Coley fired again and one of his slugs burned lightly across the rump of the second mule. It brayed and heaved and no longer hung back. It charged forward, into the rump of Nash’s horse. He was forced through the narrow defile with lead whining and buzzing around his ears. Once through, Nash turned the mules loose in the wider section of the arroyo and slid out of the saddle, rifle in hand.

  Coley Knight, crouched almost double, ran along the rim, trying to get into position so that he could pin Nash down. The Wells Fargo man sucked down a deep breath and his wound caught him, making him gasp. So he held the breath, got the rifle butt against his shoulder and drew bead on Coley as the man hurled himself headlong for the rocks.

  The Winchester spat twice, the explosions hammering back from the arroyo walls. Coley stumbled, dropped his rifle, staggered upright and clawed at his side. Suddenly, he lost balance as the crumbling edge of the rim collapsed under him. Coley gave a sharp, terrified cry, then plummeted into the arroyo, his body bouncing and raising dust as it hit the slope and slid to the bottom.

  Nash cocked the rifle and walked towards the wounded man.

  Coley was still alive, but barely. One arm was twisted so badly it had to be broken. He coughed—and crimson foam flooded over his chin.

  “What the hell you comin’ at?” Nash demanded, his eyes scanning the rim for other bushwhackers. “You after me—or the gold?”

  Coley stared, his eyes beginning to glaze as Nash prodded him with the rifle barrel, making no effort to be gentle. Coley groaned.

  “You one of Brewster’s bunch?”

  The man nodded.

  “He aimin’ to bushwhack me in Tomahawk?” Nash demanded. “Come on, feller, the truth—or I’ll make your death a mighty painful one.”

  Coley nodded again. “N-not right-away ... Wh-when y-you’re goin’ ... Send you back—dead with—gal’s little finger ...”

  Nash shook the man, demanding more details, but Coley was beyond reason. He thrashed about in unbearable pain and began to scream. Nash mercifully shot him through the head: he would have done the same to any animal he found suffering ...

  The trail to Tomahawk was one of the roughest he had ever encountered. He pulled his lips into a bitter line as he urged the team across the rugged hills. He would feel a damn sight better if Shannon were with him ...

  His plan had been to send the man on ahead or even go with him and get set up at Tomahawk before Brewster’s bunch arrived. Then he had figured to turn loose the mules with their boxes and while the outlaws were catching them, he had hoped Shannon would use his deadly marksmanship and cut down the odds ...

  But that was out. He was alone and he knew he had very little chance of pulling off a rescue. But he simply had to make his bid. He couldn’t, in all conscience, walk away from the deal without at least trying to get the girl out of Brewster’s clutches. He swore that if he failed, he would somehow find a way of getting back to Cheyenne for his reckoning with Farrell ...

  “Hold up, you.”

  Nash reined down sharply at the command that came from ahead and above him. He instinctively dropped a hand to gun butt and looked up to see the man standing on top of a boulder—with a shotgun aimed at his head. He didn’t recognize Waco, but there was little doubt he could be anyone other than one of Brewster’s bunch.

  Nash slowly lifted his hands shoulder high. “I’m Nash.”

  “We know who you are,” growled Waco and he flicked his eyes briefly.

  Nash saw the other guns covering him: one on the rim of the canyon and another behind some bushes. That made three. He didn’t know them individually, but he had heard their names. Waco, Lafe and Brick Sawtell. That had been Coley Knight he had killed back there a ways—so it only left Brewster to show himself ...

  “Keep ridin’ down-canyon,” ordered Waco. “You’ll be told when to stop. Don’t stop before that. Savvy?”

  Nash nodded, kneed his mount forward, lowered his hands

  and pulled on the mules’ ropes. They gave him some argument but he finally got them moving and walked them slowly down the canyon.

  He figured it was shaped roughly like a tomahawk, with this comparatively narrow entrance forming the handle, then the rest of the canyon widening out like the blade.

  There was a lone horseman sitting on top of a small sandy knoll. He kept his hands folded on the saddlehorn as Nash approached. When the Wells Fargo man was about a hundred yards from him, he lifted a hand and Nash stopped his cavalcade. Largo Brewster looked him over expressionlessly.

  “Them boxes look kinda heavy,” the killer said, gesturing. “Wouldn’t have gold bars in ’em by any chance, would they?”

  “Reckon they might.”

  Brewster couldn’t control the wide grin that split his hatchet face as he looked beyond Nash. “Waco, you and Lafe rip off them tarps and take a look. You keep him covered, Brick.”

  “Pleasure,” growled Sawtell, appearing on a ledge to the left and slightly above. “Just gimme an excuse, Nash. Anythin at all.”

  Brewster laughed. “Brick don’t much like you, mister ... How’s that gold comin’, Lafe?”

  “Tryin’ to get this lousy tarp off, Largo ...”

  “Hold up a minute,” Nash snapped. “Brewster—I want to see the gal.”

  The outlaw chief stared coldly at Nash for a while then flicked a finger towards Lafe to wait. He took off his hat, waved it in a short arc, then pointed over his shoulder.

  “There she be, Nash,” he growled.

  Nash saw the big Indian squaw first, then the glint of cold steel as she held a wide-bladed Bowie knife against Mary Lee’s throat. The young girl’s arms hung limply at her sides.

  Her clothing was in rags and—he wasn’t sure—but he thought he could see bruises and cuts on her face. He swiveled a savage look at Brewster.

  “She’s been manhandled, I’d say.”

  Brewster shrugged. “She tried to escape a couple times,” he lied easily. “Had to sorta teach her a lesson.”

  “It better not’ve been a hard one,” Nash gritted, then raised his voice. “Mary Lee—you all right, gal?” There was no answer: the girl didn’t even move her head. It was as if she hadn’t heard him. “Mary Lee.”

  No response.

  Nash’s face was wolfish—and deadly as he dropped his icy stare to Brewster. “You son of a bitch,” he hissed.

  “Go to hell,” Brewster muttered, unconcerned. “All right, Lafe. Get one of them boxes open. And you, Nash. You seen the knife at the gal’s throat. So you behave.”

  Nash clamped his lips together, knowing he was powerless to do anything while that Indian woman had Mary Lee.

  And yet, something was going to happen in a moment ... and he would have to be ready to take full advantage of the surprise it would cause.

  He walked his horse forward and Brewster made no attempt to stop him. He knew he held all the aces. Behind him, Lafe and Waco lifted down one of the boxes and grunted as they set it down on the sand. Waco took out his hunting knife and slid the blade under the boards, preparing to lever them up.

  “I want to ride out of here with the gal as soon as you’re satisfied the gold’s all there,” Nash said as he rode forward, trying to act casual. “That feller you set to watchin’ the trail made his try at gettin’ his hands on it ...”

  “Coley?” Brewster asked without much interest as he watched Waco lever the boards. Lafe was chasing the second mule, trying to get his hands on the second box. Even Brick Sawtell was waiting for the telltale glint of gold as the boards screeched upwards ...

  Then there was a shattering explosion and maybe Waco managed to get out a brief scream, but
it’s doubtful if anyone heard it: the thunder of the detonating dynamite sticks would have drowned it.

  The box exploded in his face and he was blown back several yards, his headless body thrashing through the air. Even though he was expecting it, Nash twitched and his hand streaked for his six-gun.

  Lafe was blown off his feet and he rolled down the slope. Sawtell had his rifle ripped from his hands and some of his clothing tore away from his arms and chest.

  Largo Brewster’s horse went down by the rump and the killer fought it viciously, trying to drag iron.

  Nash whirled his nervy mount and whipped his Colt barrel up as Brick Sawtell yelled and launched himself off the ledge in a headlong dive with gun in hand. Nash’s bullet took him in the chest and the body slammed to one side, fell across the head of Brewster’s plunging horse and put the animal down on its side again.

  Lafe was on his feet and running towards his dropped rifle. Nash spurred at him, triggered, but missed. The man threw himself bodily, skidded through the loose sand and snatched up the rifle, rolling onto his stomach as he levered and brought it around.

  Nash was almost directly above him as he triggered—the slug smashing Lafe’s skull like a rotten melon. The rifle exploded and jumped out of his hand.

  Largo Brewster rode towards Nash—his gun blazing over his mount’s head. Nash snapped off his last shot, rammed the smoking Colt into the holster and jammed the reins between his teeth as he slid the rifle out of the scabbard.

  He lifted the rifle and put a bullet through the middle of Largo’s face. The man’s body somersaulted over his horse’s rump but Nash didn’t wait to see where it landed. He spun in the saddle, looking up anxiously towards the rim where the Indian squaw had been holding Mary Lee.

  Action had exploded all around him after the dynamite had gone up and he hadn’t even had a chance to see what had happened to the girl. Now his heart seemed to stop and fill his throat.