Clay Nash 8 Read online

  Arizona knew only that Nash had been only lightly winged, so he whirled and ran to a waiting horse before hightailing it up into the sierras. Nash had gone after him fast, using Arizona’s staked-out mount. It wasn’t until they had started shooting it out among the high rocks up here that he had realized the only ammunition he had was in the rifle he had found strapped to his saddle.

  They had stalked each other during the pitch blackness before dawn and then through the haze of sunrise and now there was a man-high layer of thick white mist shrouding the hillside, lowering visibility to a few yards. Nash had only one more cartridge in the rifle. He knew Arizona was working his way up towards him—guessing there would be few rounds left for the Winchester. Nash could only apply logic and try to figure out where Arizona would appear. Finally, he decided the outlaw would approach him from above. To get a good clear shot, and so make his last cartridge count, Nash had had to stand and lean across the rock he had been using for protection. He would make a fine target for anyone to the side or even down the slope.

  Suddenly, there was a small swirling in the mist above him; a grayish movement amongst the white; a dull glint of pale sun on gunmetal. A moment later, Arizona stepped out warily, crouching, already bringing his rifle up as he spotted Nash. The hillside echoed to the close blending of the two gunshots swiftly followed by a single, whining ricochet as Arizona’s lead careened off the rock only inches from Nash’s face. The outlaw spun about as if suddenly unwound from some invisible whip and his rifle was flung high in the air. He took a single, faltering step before collapsing and starting to roll down the slope. Then he somersaulted and flopped and bounced and flailed down past Nash’s cover with increasing speed. The Wells Fargo man watched the body skid down the slope like a rag doll to be swallowed up in the layers of mist.

  Legs stiff and braced against the decline, Nash climbed down to where the horse thief lay in a battered, bloody heap amongst a pile of rocks. There would be no trial for this man.

  Later, he found the Wells Fargo bag, still with its sealed padlock through the eyelets, in the saddlebags of Arizona’s horse.

  Once again the Fargo code had been upheld. And now he had the long trail to Denver stretching ahead of him.

  To Denver and Detective Chief Jim Hume, who would no doubt have yet another assignment waiting for him.

  ~*~

  “There were no signs of dynamite and yet, by the size of the mess, you’d think a dozen sticks had been used.” Chief of Detectives, James Hume, pushed the folder across the desk towards, the trail-stained Nash and puffed on his cigar. His hard eyes watched as his top operative glanced swiftly through the report, picking out the main points which Hume had already underlined in red ink.

  “Nitro,” Nash said, glancing up. “Had to be nitro they used. But haven’t heard of anyone using it to kill half a town. Is this right? Twelve killed? Seventeen wounded?”

  “That’s it, Clay. Threw the bomb then hightailed it. Found one of them out the back of the bank—shot through the middle of the face. It was Crazy Catlow.”

  Nash’s weary face reflected his surprise. “Catlow? What the hell’s he doing in this neck of the woods?”

  “Lookin’ at the base of a wooden marker on Boothill right now. Must’ve been brought in special. This sure ain’t his stampin’ ground.”

  “Any ideas on the others?”

  “I figure Nitro Mantell for one—’cept for the butcher’s job.”

  “Hell, yeah. Mantell’s tough and he’ll kill if he has to—but I’ve never known him to use nitro against people.”

  “I figure Catlow was the butcher—and Mantell killed him before hightailing it.”

  Nash nodded slowly. “Sounds better. Anything missing from the safe?”

  “Couldn’t bust it. One of the new Fawcett-Carlins. But they took a steel deed box and some money sacks. Should’ve been locked up in the safe.” Hume crushed out his cigar and squinted through the haze of smoke at Nash. “There were papers in that box we’d undertaken to deliver to Fletcher.” He paused for a full three seconds. “We still aim to.”

  Clay nodded, stifling a yawn and scrubbing a hand down his face.

  “Guess I’ll wash up and get me some sleep, then go through the file thoroughly and make tracks for Squirrel Creek.” Hume shook his head.

  “No time, Clay. Top priority. Some of the papers were bound for Fort Piper and the army. A stage leaves for Squirrel Creek in about two hours. It’ll be carrying payroll money and mail. You’ll be ridin’ shotgun. Regular guard’s sick and can’t make the trip. Sorry, but we have to get moving. I’ll have a man in Squirrel Creek take over from you.”

  Nash sighed heavily. “I’ve been without sleep for forty-eight hours, chasin’ Arizona all over the sierras, Jim. Hope I can stay awake.”

  Hume smiled slowly. “With your record, I’ve got no worries about that payroll going through.”

  Nash stood up stiffly, grunting as he arched his back to get rid of some of the kinks. “Guess I’ve got time to soak a little in a hot tub.” He picked up the folder and squinted at his boss. “That slaughter don’t sound like Mantell.”

  “Not that part, no,” Hume admitted. “But I still see his mark in the way that safe was blown.” He gestured to the folder. “I’ve included his record there. Read it. Study his methods. You’ll come to the same conclusion. It had to be Nitro Mantell.”

  “Big manhunt?”

  “One of the biggest. Every lawman in the country's lookin’ for Nitro. I reckon every inch of country between here and Cheyenne is bein’ searched. But it’ll be better if someone from Wells Fargo nails this bunch—whoever they are. I figure you won’t go far wrong If you work on Mantell.”

  Nash stifled another yawn. “I’ll go wash up and ride that stage out.”

  “We’re diverting to Red Rapids for an overnight stop. Got a mail pick-up there.”

  Nash showed interest. “Who’s running the depot? Still Trace Hollis?”

  Hume smiled. “Your old pard.”

  Hollis was intelligent and smart enough, with plenty of guts, but didn’t have the qualities that makes a good agent. Apart from this, he was something of a hot-head and the company had been forced to relegate him to the position of depot manager.

  Nash nodded as he went out, looking thoughtful. It would be good to see Trace again. He figured they’d have themselves a wingding in Red Rapids before the stage moved on to Squirrel Creek. It was the one bright spot in a very long journey.

  ~*~

  Red Rapids was much bigger than Nash recalled it. It had been a long time since he had been down this way and the town had sure grown. It was a beautiful spot, nestling amongst the lush greenery of woods and rolling hills on the banks of the Big Platte. The rapids that gave the town its name were about a half-mile downstream and most times could be constantly heard in their roaring passage over the rocks before tumbling down into a turbulent pool that gave way eventually to a quiet reach of the river.

  There were several saloons now; a feature by which most western towns were judged. The more saloons, the wilder and richer the town. Folk needed some place to spend their money and to have some fun; to cut loose from the soul-destroying drudgery of frontier life. Apart from the straight-out saloons, there was a large hotel with a ‘private’ bar attached. There were also three general stores and four barber shops—one going under the fancy name of the Colorado Tonsorial Parlor. In the center of the wide main street was a large, circular area paved with terracotta. Arising from this, a tall white pole with the Union flag fluttering from its peak. At the base were two old Civil War cannon and two stacked pyramids of tarred cannon bells.

  The whole place was far more prosperous-looking than Clay remembered, though he had only passed through here once a long time ago and then he had been toting an ounce of lead under his left shoulder blade.

  The Wells Fargo depot was at the end of a business block on the south side of Main. There was a turning circle for the coaches and a workshop attached
. The depot had been built from varnished cedar logs that gleamed in the sun. The windows were clean and bright. Inside, the place was neat and tidy, the waiting room decorated with old prints and posters, all framed ornately. The clerks wore green eyeshades, cardboard cuff protectors and white shirts with black ribbon ties under black vests. It was almost a uniform.

  Nash was impressed with the place and thumbed back his hat as he walked across to one of the cages, the twin-barreled Ithaca shotgun held loosely in his left hand. Behind the clerks’ counter, he could see an office with a half-glass door. The opaque glass bore the legend: Depot Manager—T. Hollis.

  As Nash leaned wearily on the edge of the counter, the door opened and a tall man, lean in whipcord trousers, buttoned gray vest over white shirt with black ribbon tie, came out of the office. He had a narrow, hawk like face, with brown eyes, slicked-back brown hair and a small deep scar just beneath his right eye. He wore a slanting cartridge belt, the holster strapped to his thigh with plaited rawhide. He moved with an easy grace but his jaw was set in hard lines as he strode towards one of the clerks.

  “Billings,” the tall man snapped. “What the hell is this?” He flung some papers onto the desk. They scattered and some fell to the floor.

  The clerk paled. “The—the monthly balance, Mr. Hollis,” he stammered.

  “It’s lousy,” Hollis said. “Do it again.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hollis. You said you wanted the sheets right away and I ...”

  Hollis cut him short. “Do it again, Billings.”

  The clerk’s jaw sagged. “Again, sir? But I—I can’t. I mean, it took me—hours! All the figures are there. If it’s only a matter of deciphering, I’d be glad to work with you and point out ...”

  Again Hollis cut in:

  “Not good enough, Billings. These sheets have to be forwarded to head office. Have them on my desk by sundown.”

  “But, sir ... I have my normal work ...”

  “Sundown, Billings.”

  Hollis swung away from the clerk then noticed Clay standing at the counter. He smiled.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes—you can go to hell,” Nash growled. Hollis stopped dead. The two men stared at each other. Then Nash laughed. “Well, that’s where you always said you were heading.” He thrust his hand through the bars. “Howdy, Trace.”

  Hollis suddenly recognized his old friend and a wide smile spread across his face and he gripped Clay’s hand through the bars. “Clay Nash. Well, I’ll be damned.”

  He continued to grin as he raised the counter flap and stepped aside. Nash took the Ithaca with him as he headed for the manager’s office. Trace followed and closed the door behind them. Both men were silent, but smiling, as Hollis poured two shots of whisky. They raised their glasses in salute.

  “To the old days,” Hollis said. They drank and Hollis sat on a corner of his neat desk. Hollis glanced around the clean office with a proud smile. “What d’you think, Clay?”

  “Neat.” Nash looked levelly at Hollis over the rim of his glass. “Notice you keep a pretty tight rein on your clerks, too.”

  “Have to. Got to drive them all the time. Specially Billings. He’s accurate enough but very sloppy.”

  “Wonder you keep him around.”

  Hollis shrugged. “We all have to do things we don’t really want to, Clay.” He forced a laugh. “He’s handy to kick around when the mood takes me. Saves me smashing up the furniture.”

  Nash smiled, a mite bleakly. He recollected how Hollis could suddenly sink into a black mood during their training and nothing would bring him out of it until he was ready to put it aside. It was one reason Hume had failed to keep him on as an agent.

  “Should’ve figured they’d send the top man to pick up the mail, Clay,” Hollis went on. He was still smiling, though it was just a little tight around the edges now.

  “But what you doin’ ridin’ shotgun? Kind of a come-down, ain’t it?”

  Nash explained about the guard being sick and that he was on his way to investigate the massacre at Squirrel Creek. Hollis’ jaw tightened when Clay mentioned Nitro Mantell.

  “But I heard his bunch had been spotted way north in Wyoming.”

  “Could be. We’re just guessing right now.” Clay glanced around the office. “Suppose we should be gettin’ to work. Got a fair bit on the stage to stack away.” He gestured to the green-painted steel box bolted to the floor and the wall in one corner. “Looks strong enough.”

  Hollis scowled. “Does the job. But it’s old, Clay. Needs updatin’. Something like those big Fawcett-Carlins would be fine—like they have at Squirrel Creek.”

  “All depots’ll have ’em eventually, I guess,” Nash said, standing and setting his glass on the desk. Hollis whipped it up swiftly and took a cloth from a top drawer, wiping away the ring of moisture left by the bottom of the glass. He slapped the rag back into the drawer. “Let’s see about getting this payroll money transferred,” he snapped. “First things first. We can jaw afterwards.”

  “You married or anythin’?” Nash asked as they moved towards the door.

  “Hell, no. And I know you’re not?” He laughed as Nash arched his eyebrows. “Oh, I’ve been followin’ your career closely, Clay. I know every assignment you’ve had, those you’ve failed in—which ain’t many—and those where you shined real well.” He punched Nash lightly on the shoulder. “You’re doin’ pretty good, old pard. Could’ve made a good team, you and me, I reckon.”

  “Maybe,” Nash said cautiously. He had never pictured himself teamed up with Hollis—or anyone else for that matter. He was a loner and liked working alone. “So you’ve been keepin’ tabs, eh?”

  Hollis nodded. “Here and there. Like to read about you and Dakota Haines, that kid, Brown, and so on. All from our old group. Seems I’m the only one managing a depot, while you other hombres collect the glory.” He laughed outright and clapped an arm around Nash’s shoulders as they went out into the front office. “If that sounds as if I regret it, you’re right! Though I guess I don’t have too many complaints about the job here. Nice spot, Red Rapids, and I’ve built up the company business by hard work. Been sloggin’ away for months, Clay, months.”

  Nash shook his head. “But a man can’t spend all his time sweatin’. Got to cut loose once in a while and relax.”

  Hollis stared at Clay then his face broke into a smile. “You’re right. What say you and me hang one on, tonight? Plenty of night life about—if you know where to look. And I reckon I do. Besides, we mightn’t have another chance to howl for quite a spell.”

  Nash hesitated. He could sure use some sleep, but Hollis was right; they might not see each other again for years. He grinned and winked.

  “You’re on. We’ll throw a wingding this town’ll remember the way they remember the Battle of the Rapids.”

  Hollis smiled crookedly. “Yeah, we sure will.” He turned and rapped out orders to his clerks to begin offloading the payroll from the stage.

  Three – A Night to Howl

  For a man who had been ‘slogging’ for months, Trace Hollis sure knew his way around the four saloons in Red Rapids. What was more, the people who worked in the saloons knew him, too. He was addressed as ‘Mr. Hollis’ by some; ‘Trace’ by others—mainly women.

  The two men began to ‘relax’ with a meal in the rear of the Union. Thick beef steaks smothered in onions with three eggs apiece, a few hunks of cornpone and wedges of apple pie. Hollis felt it would give a good foundation for the drinking which would come later. Nash was still very tired but the first few whiskies had sparked him up considerably. He felt himself begin to unwind and even felt a mite reckless. Maybe it would do him good to cut loose. Might brush away a few cobwebs and clear his mind to be better able to solve the riddle of the slaughter at Squirrel Creek.

  Hollis, too, showed signs of recklessness. He quickly began to lose his air of dignity by ripping off his ribbon tie and unbuttoning his shirt as well as his vest. He sweated a lot and his
hair hung lankly over one eye, giving him a kind of rake-hell look. He was a handsome enough man and Nash could well understand his popularity with the girls. One after another, the saloon girls sidled up provocatively—only to be ignored by Clay, or dismissed by Trace. Neither man was ready as yet, for the pleasures promised by painted whores. They still had a lot of drinking and reminiscing to do.

  “You recollect that theoretical robbery we had to solve in Falls Bridge?” Hollis said as they hunched over drinks at the bar of the ‘Silver Garter.’

  Clay nodded. “Sure. What about it?”

  “Turned out to be not so theoretical. Someone did break in and clean out the safe.” He laughed, shoulders shaking. “Got off with a couple o’ thousand bucks, if I recollect rightly.” He paused. “Hear tell the great Jim Hume never did manage to get the hombre. Leastways, not yet.”

  Nash frowned. “Trace, you got somethin’ agin Jim Hume?”

  Hollis looked genuinely surprised. “Huh?”

  “Well, it’s just that when you say his name you kind of spit it out, like a cuss. You’ve made a couple o’ snide remarks about me bein’ top gun and so on. Was wonderin’ if you got maybe a chip on your shoulder.”

  Hollis laughed. “Me? ’Bout what?”

  “Bein’ dropped as an agent. Put into a depot.”

  Hollis downed his whisky and poured another. “Maybe.” He twisted the glass nervously in his hand. “Then again, maybe I’d’ve liked a job with more action. But whatever I work at, Clay, I give it my best, you know that.”

  Nash nodded; that was true enough. He felt Hollis was fishing for compliments. “You were always mighty fast with a gun, Trace. Still practice?”

  Hollis looked at him sharply, started to reply, then glanced at Clay’s full glass. He seemed a mite uneasy. “Not any more. No need. I mean, I might get the odd tough coot with a complaint who has to be manhandled, but it’s generally only a matter of throwin’ ’em out of the depot and that’s it. No one goes for a gun over the price of a ticket—or the stage bein’ late.”