Clay Nash 5 Page 11

  The mist swirled and Hume couldn’t see properly around the rim of the ledge but he thought there was a shadowy movement up there, like a man’s head and shoulders as he peered down and then withdrew. Hume didn’t move for long minutes and his fingers and bent legs began to cramp. By Godfrey, next time some young, shavetail lieutenant wanted to send one of his men on a chore like this he sure wouldn’t argue with him!

  But he was achieving nothing, hanging in midair like this. So Hume bared his teeth, moved his boots around, found solid purchase and, with stiff and numbed fingers, dug into the earth and slowly pulled himself to an upright position. He leaned against the slope face, knowing he had only a few feet more to go. But while he had to go up and over the rim of that ledge, he didn’t necessarily have to appear where the lookout expected.

  Hume worked his way backwards, more cautiously than ever, keeping an eye on the edge of the rock where he thought he had seen the movement through the mist. It was slow work and it was dangerous, for he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the rim now: he had to move by feel with his boots, and then a rock pressed into his side and his elbow knocked some earth loose and he knew he had come to the end of the ledge, where the slope angled inwards steeply. Here he had to work fast and surely; there would be no second chance if he placed a foot wrong here.

  Easing his body over onto the jutting rib of earth, he made sure his boots were solidly planted and that he had a firm hold with his left hand. Hand, arm, shoulders, and legs all working precisely together, Hume heaved upwards as he pulled his Colt free of its holster. He came up and over the end of the ledge in a rush, with a grunt but very little other sound. He saw the lookout, startled, turn from where he was sitting with a gun braced between his bent legs, aiming at the rim of the ledge in the middle where he expected Hume to appear. He started to turn, trying to lunge up to his feet at the same time. Hume’s thick body slammed into him and crushed him back against the rock. The man squirmed and tried to kick free but Hume smashed his head in with one solid blow from his Colt butt. The man convulsed under him and then gave a final jerk and lay still. Panting, Hume looked down at him briefly and then pushed back, getting up on shaky legs. He wiped a hand across his sweating face.

  As soon as the swirling mists cleared a little more he would make the pre-arranged signal and the lieutenant and his troop would come riding full-pelt up here into the hills on the first leg of the search for the hidden valley.

  ~*~

  Nash was dressed in the uniform shirt and trousers of the guard whom Newman had slugged. The colonel had said little since knocking the man unconscious, except to hurry up Nash in changing clothes with the guard. He had told the Garths he would be closing the door and he would talk to Nash outside, where Nash would stand with the guard’s rifle. A casual glance from the parade ground and it would seem that all was well.

  “But don’t worry,” he assured the Garths. “I’ll leave the keys in the door and as soon as Nash understands what I want done, we’ll let you out.”

  Now, outside the door, standing as if on guard, his eyes watching the activity on the parade ground, Nash spoke quietly to Newman.

  “What’s goin’ on, colonel? I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but how come you beat the hell out of me when I tried for Mandrell and now are turnin’ me loose?”

  Newman glanced around, eyes wary. He took a bulging chamois wallet from inside his shirt, stuffed with papers. He handed it to Nash who took it and thrust it inside his own shirt, looking puzzled.

  “I’m an undercover federal marshal,” Newman announced curtly. “You’re going to have to take my word for it. I’ve got nothing on me to prove it. I’ve worked my way up to being Mandrell’s right-hand man over the past few months. We knew he was gathering an army of rebellion; knew he had them scattered in six different places.” He gestured to Nash’s shirt and the wallet that showed one corner where the cloth wasn’t buttoned properly. “It’s all in there. Maps, locations, directions, where he aims to strike and when. You’ve got to get it to the army commander at Deadwood.”

  “You’re not comin’?”

  Newman shook his head swiftly, still glancing constantly around. “If I run, he’ll call everything off and disband his men. Long as I’m here he’ll think everything’s okay.”

  “He’ll find out I’m missin’. And the Garths ... ”

  “Yes, but he can’t get word to his other men to disband before you reach Deadwood and spread the word. The army will have time to move in on them. He might disband these men here, but the others’ll be caught …”

  “And so will you. He’ll know you must’ve turned us loose.”

  Newman looked at Nash levelly. “Yes. There’s no way out of that. But I can keep him busy for a spell to give you time to get out. Now, there are three horses saddled behind that stand of trees, up above the waterhole. There’s food and ammunition and guns. I reckon you can find your way back to the relay station, Nash. You’re no fool and you must have marked a way in here ... Can I depend on you?”

  “You can depend on me tryin’ like hell,” Nash assured him, looking around and seeing a small group of men at the double-march with rifles across their chests, approaching. He stiffened. “Thanks for what you’ve done, Newman, but looks like things are gonna blow up in your face!”

  Newman glanced at the small group of men, four in all, under a sergeant, and he stepped out to meet them, using his body to shield Nash so he wouldn’t be readily recognized.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” he called.

  “General’s changed his mind and wants Nash executed right away, Colonel,” the sergeant answered, stopping his men and saluting. “He figures that ...” He broke off, frowning, as he glanced at the door of the stonehouse with the keys jutting from the locks. “Colonel, what are you ... ? By God! That’s Nash!”

  He took a step to one side the better to see the door, and spotted Nash’s features. His hand reached for his gun and the four-man firing squad started to bring their rifles around. Nash swung his rifle around, the butt braced against his hip. The gun whiplashed and the sergeant was lifted off the ground as the lead took him in the chest. Nash spun towards the squad, butt still braced into his hip, the lever working fast, triggering shot after shot, seeing his lead spinning the four men all over the parade ground. One man got off a couple of shots and he saw Newman stagger. Then the colonel’s Colt blasted the man to hell and Nash shot the last man. He lurched over onto his side, boots drumming as the life drained from him.

  “Now we’ve got trouble!” Newman gritted, holding a hand against his bleeding shoulder. He looked away from the chaos and shouting of the parade ground to Nash. “Get them out and run for. it! I’ll hold ’em!”

  Nash didn’t argue. He propped the smoking rifle against the stonehouse and turned both keys simultaneously, swinging the door open. The pale-faced Garths were waiting just inside and they burst out, Susan looking away quickly from the dead and dying men. Newman was already moving, shooting at curious soldiers who came running up. Startled, two simply stood there until his bullets cut them down. Then the rest scattered for their tents. There were shouted orders and wild curses and men demanded to know what in hell was happening. Nash grabbed Susan’s hand and, clutching the rifle in the other hand, urged Walt Garth ahead of him towards the trees where Newman had said the horses waited. He didn’t look back, there was no point. Newman was giving them a chance and it would be stupid to spoil it by unnecessary delay. The colonel no doubt knew what he was about and had covered just such a contingency as this ...

  Newman had. He emptied his gun and ran to the nearest cannon. They were all charged and ready for the day’s practice, and he strained and heaved at the carriage, turning the heavy gun around to face the parade ground. Lead spanged off the iron barrel and sparks flew briefly. Mandrell was waving a saber and urging men to cut Newman down. There would be such a hail of lead flying in a few moments he knew he couldn’t hope to survive. He staggered as a bullet thu
dded into his left hip. His leg buckled but he clung to the bascabel at the rear of the cannon, strained with his good leg and got the muzzle facing the way he wanted it. He picked up the horn from the side box of the cannon, spilled some fine powder into the touch-hole and lurched as lead hit him in the chest. Coughing blood, hanging on desperately but feeling the strength going out of his fingers, Newman scratched a vesta into flame and thrust its blazing head down into the touch-hole, just as another bullet slammed into his side and spun his body back across the gun carriage. The powder flared and the cannon leapt clear off the ground as it fired with a thunderous roar.

  An instant later there was an even more deafening explosion as the ball flew true into the powder magazine. A shattering noise slammed through the valley and flattened tents and blasted men clear off their feet. Flame spewed upwards and outwards and debris and dismembered men erupted into the morning sky and began to patter down to the valley floor where the survivors were staggering like drunken men, deafened by the roar.

  Smoke and dust, hung in a massive pall over the blasted campsite, and there were bodies strewn all over the littered parade ground. But there were stunned men getting to their feet, too, and, stumbling through the smoke, his face blackened, one shirtsleeve torn and smoldering, came ‘General’ Orson Mandrell, saber still clutched in his hand. He fell over a wounded man with an arm half torn from his shoulder, cursed the soldier, and staggered on through the smoke and dust, muttering, wild-eyed, his mane of hair standing out from his head like wire.

  He came to the overturned cannon and looked down at Newman, pinned under the carriage. The undercover marshal was barely alive but managed to grin through the bright blood masking his face.

  “You’ll never—hear—yourself—called—President now, General.”

  Mandrell roared, lifted the saber with a curse and slashed down savagely.

  ~*~

  Behind the stand of trees, Nash and the Garths were mounted and he urged them to get the hell out of there, knowing it wouldn’t take long for the survivors to get on their trail, especially if Mandrell himself had survived that shattering explosion. They turned their mounts to follow Nash as he spurred away, heading around the perimeter of the shattered campsite, and up into the hills that would take them back over the high trail to the relay station.

  “Stop—them!”

  Nash hipped in leather at the roaring order and saw Mandrell, bloody saber in hand, disheveled, uniform in tatters, and forking a big black horse, riding out of the shambles of the camp on their trail. He must have known there was only one trail out of the valley and had tried to head them off. He had failed, but he had raised the alarm now.

  Mandrell was certainly not short on guts. He didn’t wait for his men to gather behind him: he left them running after their horses, and, wielding his saber, gave chase.

  “Die, Nash!” he yelled, crazily, the wind whipping his long hair behind him as he wielded his saber. “Death to all enemies of the Republic!”

  Nash turned and fired a hasty shot, but they were just starting up the rugged trail now and it was narrow and precarious and he had to devote some of his attention to where the frightened horse was placing its feet. He pulled to one side and urged Susan and Garth past. Then, figuring there was only one thing for it, he turned his mount back down the trail and rode out to meet Mandrell.

  “Clay!” cried Susan in anguish, but her father urged her on, knowing Nash was giving them a chance to get away.

  Mandrell rode in with a wild yell and Nash fought his mount around, bringing up the rifle one-handed. He fired and his lead flicked at Mandrell’s hair. Nash fumbled the reins to work the lever and reload and Mandrell slammed home his heels and raced his horse in like a flash. The saber swung, whistling as the blade hacked the air, straight for Nash’s face. He got the gun barrel up and the blade clanged on the steel and the jar tore the rifle from Nash’s hands. Mandrell reversed his swing instantly and Nash ducked as the blade slashed only inches above his head. It flicked the tip of his mount’s ear, drawing blood, and the horse reared, whinnying in fright and pain. Mandrell instinctively swung his mount aside and Nash palmed up the Peacemaker and fired as the mad general jumped his horse back, swinging again with the saber.

  The bullet took Mandrell in the chest and he lurched in the saddle but the saber continued its swing and the blade caught the tip of Nash’s shoulder. He yelled in pain, somehow managed to keep hold of his six-gun, and blasted two more shots at close range into Mandrell. The impact of the .45 slugs lifted the man from his saddle and he thudded to the ground, the saber flying from his hands.

  He lay still, his chest smashed in, life draining swiftly from him. Nash holstered his gun, glanced back to see disheveled soldiers riding out of the smoke and dust of the campsite, then threw a brief salute in Mandrell’s direction before riding for the high trail where Susan and Garth waited. The man may have been loco but, in his queer way, he had believed in what he had tried to do.

  Nash lay low over his mount’s neck as bullets whistled past him and he sent the animal flying up the steep and narrow trail out of the hidden valley ...

  Urging the Garths ahead of him, Nash out-ran the still shocked soldiers who were the remnants of Mandrell’s now leaderless army, and they came up to the ledge near Bald Man’s Peak and ran into a worried Hume and a whole troop of soldiers under a young, fresh-faced lieutenant.

  “Good God almighty, Clay!” Hume breathed. “What in hell happened? I swear the hills trembled with some sort of explosion! It must still be echoing clear back to the Shiloh trail!”

  “Long story, Jim,” Nash told him, “but you’ll find the remnants of a rebel army comin’ along behind us. And I’ve got papers here that tell of six more armies massing. I’ve got to get back to Deadwood to raise the alarm.”

  Hume nodded. “Better go by way of the relay station,” he said quietly, with a crooked grin at Nash’s puzzled look. “Mary Summers is bitin’ her nails, waiting to know if you’re safe and sound!”

  A wide grin spread over Nash’s face and he threw a casual salute to Hume, waved briefly to the Garths, then turned his mount and spurred away along the trail.

  Susan sighed regretfully. It looked like Mary Summers had won again.

  The Clay Nash Series

  by Brett Waring

  Undercover Gun

  A Gun Is Waiting

  Long Trail to Yuma

  Reckoning at Rimrock

  Last Stage to Shiloh

  … And more to come every other month!

  About the Author

  Keith Hetherington

  aka Kirk Hamilton, Brett Waring and Hank J. Kirby

  Australian writer Keith has worked as television scriptwriter on such Australian TV shows as Homicide, Matlock Police, Division 4, Solo One, The Box, The Spoiler and Chopper Squad.

  "I always liked writing little vignettes, trying to describe the 'action' sequences I saw in a film or the Saturday Afternoon Serial at local cinemas," remembers Keith Hetherington, better-known to Piccadilly Publishing readers as 'Hank J. Kirby', author of the Bronco Madigan series.

  Keith went on to pen hundreds of westerns (the figure varies between 600 and 1000) under the names 'Kirk Hamilton' (including the legendary Bannerman the Enforcer series) and Clay Nash as 'Brett Waring'. Keith also worked as a journalist for the Queensland Health Education Council, writing weekly articles for newspapers on health subjects and radio plays dramatizing same.

  More on Keith Hetherington

  But the adventure doesn’t end here …

  Join us for more first-class, action-packed books.

  Regular updates feature on our website and blog

  The Adventures continue…

  More on Brett Waring

 

 

 
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