Clay Nash 19 Read online

  His men were yelling wildly like Indians on the warpath as they ran back to their mounts, clutching whatever they had looted from the ranch house.

  Largo led them back to the ridge where he sat his mount for a long time, watching the big ranch house burn like a funeral pyre. The white square of his note pinned to the hitching post was still visible. He turned as Brick put his mount alongside.

  “Mebbe we better be goin’, eh Largo?” Redbeard suggested. “Farrell’s goin’ to see that smoke from up in the hills.”

  Largo Brewster sighed heavily. “Yeah. I’d sure like to see his face when he rides in an’ finds his fine ranch in ashes—and my note. But I guess you’re right. We’d better mosey.”

  He threw a final glance at the blazing ranch house, then holding the still unconscious girl’s body across his saddle with one hand, turned his mount and led his men away.

  A slow, twisted smile of satisfaction made his hatchet face seem more evil and dangerous than ever.

  Two – Top Priority, Top Gun

  Clay Nash cursed under his breath as the man at the far end of the crowded bar suddenly thrust back and stared directly at him. His hand was already hovering over his gun butt.

  Even before the man spoke, Nash knew that his cover was blown: Mort Saracen had recognized him, in spite of the dust caked beard that the Wells Fargo undercover operative wore.

  “By God! Nash,” Saracen growled, his deep voice bringing a sudden silence to the packed bar. “I never figured you’d get this damn close to me. You must’ve worked your way through a dozen false trails to get here. But here’s where the trail ends for you, amigo.”

  Men scattered, diving for cover—some running for the doors, jamming up the exits. A couple of saloon gals squealed and hurried up the stairs to the floor above. The two barkeeps looked at the two men facing each other down the length of the long bar and decided to stay out of it. Brawls they could handle—that was part of their job—but when it came to gunfights ...

  They sidled slowly along the rows of cluttered shelves and slipped out the door at the end.

  Nash stood a couple of inches over six feet, and his body was lean and hard-muscled, and there was a deadliness in his eyes that showed through the weariness.

  He flexed the fingers of his right hand, holding it a few inches from the cedar butt of the holstered Colt tied low on his right thigh.

  Mort Saracen, rawboned and slit-eyed, held both hands out from his sides, ready to slap them against the butts of his twin guns. He was mouthing filth and obscenities at Nash.

  “Save it, Mort,” Nash told him in a quiet, deep voice that carried throughout the big room. “You’ve spotted me and now it’s time for a reckonin’. I didn’t want it this way, leastways, not yet, but here we are—and it’s your move.”

  Saracen heaved a sigh. “You lousy sonofabitch, Nash! I really figured I had you beat this time. I had men an’ women coverin’ my backtrail clear down to Mexico and I’m damned if I ever figured you’d get closer than fifty miles to me, if that. Yet here you are breathin’ down my neck.”

  “Get on with it, Mort,” Nash prodded. There was no way of changing the inevitable, and he would as soon get it over with as quickly as possible. But he recognized it as a necessary part of the pattern, at least it was for Mort. The man had to work himself up to a point where he would get savagely angry—then reach for his gun.

  For Mort Saracen knew only too well that Clay Nash hadn’t become Wells Fargo’s top gun through backing-off from situations such as this ...

  “Well, you just ain’t walkin’ away from this one, Nash,” the outlaw said flatly. “Damned if you are! You an’ me’ve been long overdue for a reckonin’ an’ ...”

  He broke off abruptly and his hands slapped his gun butts and began to lift the big Colts clear of leather with one swift, eye blurring motion.

  The muzzle had just started to emerge when Nash’s Colt barked and bucked in his hand. Two swift shots slammed into Saracen’s chest and sent him flailing back past the end of the bar to smash his body against the wall. He jarred his head on the woodwork, and his eyes stared in disbelief as thick blood bubbled from one corner of his mouth. His six-guns fell from his weakened hands and thudded to the floor as he slid down the wall.

  Nash was kneeling beside him in a flash. He grabbed the outlaw’s greasy black hair, jerked his head up and looked into the pain-wracked face. Saracen’s eyes fluttered open. They were already glazing as they stared at Nash. The Wells Fargo man pressed his gun muzzle under the outlaw’s slackening jaw.

  “You got a few minutes left, Mort,” Nash said coldly. “They can get a lot worse than they are now—unless you tell me where Jubal went with that gold.”

  “Goddamnit!” a voice snapped behind Nash. “Leave the man die in peace, can’t you? You’ve killed him. Be satisfied.”

  Nash slowly turned his head and saw one of the house gamblers standing with fists clenched.

  “You want to buy in, mister, just keep it up. You’ll be dead before he is.”

  The gambler backed away, frowning, but still looking angry.

  Nash shifted so he could watch the man and pressed the gun muzzle harder against Saracen’s jaw.

  “You want a slug in the belly to help you on your way, Mort?” Nash asked.

  Saracen turned his head and coughed more blood.

  “Jubal,” Nash gritted.

  “U-U-Utah,” the dying man gasped. “His—brother’s place ... Name of—of—Prince.”

  Then his head fell forward and his chest began to heave as he drew his last few breaths. Nash stood, and raked his hard gaze over the men in the big room. The gambler stood to one side, alone. No one was backing him and he remained silent as Nash backed to a side door and slipped into the night ...

  He cleared town within minutes, mounting his waiting horse and using the side streets to take him to the southern edge of the town. He didn’t know if Saracen had any friends in the area or not but he wasn’t about to take any chances.

  He was nearing the end of a long assignment. Saracen had been one of a large number of outlaws who had wrecked an entire train and robbed the Wells Fargo Express coach of a hundred thousand dollars in gold and currency. During the long weeks of investigation, Nash had recovered most of the currency, apart from what the bandits had already spent. But the gold had been whipped away by the gang’s leader, Jubal King, when he and Saracen had double-crossed the others.

  It had been a hard trail and he only had to nail King for it to be finished. It was proving to be one of the toughest cases in his career as a Wells Fargo investigator. Likely it would earn him a bonus from the company, for they believed in rewarding their operatives for exceptional efforts.

  Jim Hume should be notified, of course, that he was on the last leg of the trail, so he rode for a full day before he came to a town that had a telegraph office. He sent off his wire to his chief, James Hume, in Cheyenne, and then headed south towards Utah.

  He didn’t know where the Prince spread was, but he knew he would find it soon enough and then he would make his plans for the final assault. He wondered which was Jubal’s real name: King or Prince? Not that it mattered. The man would be dead in a week or two, either by way of a bullet or a hemp necktie ...

  As usual, Nash had sent his wire to Hume designating his next stop where Hume could send a reply or further instructions should they be necessary. It was to be the town of Wagonwheel, Utah.

  It was a largish settlement in the middle of cattle country at the end of a railroad spur track. The telegraph office was attached to the railroad depot and when Nash arrived, weary and trail-stained, he went directly to the office and asked if there were any wires for him.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Nash,” the telegraphist told him, reaching into a pigeon hole and handing Nash a yellow envelope. “Been here two days.”

  Nash frowned as he saw the word ‘Urgent’ stamped across the face of the envelope; if it had been there for two days, it meant Hume must have sent it almo
st as soon as he had received Nash’s message. He ripped open the envelope and unfolded the dog-eared form inside. His frown deepened.

  SEND FULL, REPEAT FULL, DETAILS JUBAL’S WHEREABOUTS THIS OFFICE. THEN RETURN POST HASTE CHEYENNE. IMPERATIVE YOU GET HERE SOONEST.

  HUME.

  Clay Nash re-read the message and was sorely puzzled. What the hell! he thought. Six months on the trail of Jubal’s bunch, and then when he was within spitting distance of recovering the forty-thousand in gold, Hume wanted to recall him. He couldn’t savvy it. The assignment was too important to the company to be abandoned. Somehow, Hume must have got the wrong message or misunderstood it ...

  He snapped his gaze to the waiting telegraphist.

  “How long would it take to get a reply from a message sent to Cheyenne right now?”

  The man pursed his leathery lips and pushed back his dark green eyeshade. “We-ell, if you indicate you want a reply immediate, it’d depend on gettin’ it delivered to the party at the other end an’ then them writin’ their reply, getting it back to the operator an’ passin’ it back down the line.”

  “Down the line?”

  “Sure. We ain’t connected direct to Cheyenne from here, you know. Ain’t close enough for that. It’s gotta be relayed through four, five other stations ...”

  “Yes, yes,” Nash said impatiently, “but how long? Three hours? Half a day? What?”

  “I’d say more like half a day. Wires are heavy with traffic these days an’ specially with round-up time an’ all the cattle agents usin’ the telegraph ...”

  Nash was already scribbling on the pad. He completed the message and pushed it across to the operator.

  “Send that direct to Wells Fargo Depot, Cheyenne. They’ve got their own telegraph and Hume’s office is in the building. He’ll get the message almost as fast as it comes off the wire ...”

  “Listen, young feller, before it goes any further—this is gonna cost some ten dollars, all this priority you want.”

  Nash impatiently pushed a ten dollar gold piece under the wire separating the operator’s office from the other part of the depot.

  “There’s your blasted money. Now send the wire.”

  The man took the money, tightened his lips and sat down at his key and began to send Nash’s message which not only repeated his earlier one, but asked Hume to clarify his own urgent wire.

  “I’ll be at the Drover’s Rest, mister. An’ standing right back here by sundown, lookin’ for my reply, okay?”

  At the hotel, Nash soaked in a hot tub, shaved and sent the roustabout for a new shirt and whipcord trousers. Then he ate a big meal, made sure his horse had been attended properly at the livery and killed time until sundown when he strode back into the railroad depot’s telegraph office. The operator was bent over the clicking key, rapidly scrawling an incoming message onto his pad. He looked up as Nash entered and nodded.

  As the key fell silent, he gave the short acknowledgement on his own key and stood up, bringing his notepad with him to the counter. He slid it under the wire.

  “As you seen, just came in.”

  Nash read Hume’s reply and his mouth stretched into a razor thin line. It was short and to the point.

  DROP EVERYTHING, REPEAT EVERYTHING, NOW, REPEAT NOW. RETURN CHEYENNE IMMEDIATELY.

  HUME.

  Clay shook his head in bewilderment. What the hell could be so damned important that he had to abandon $40,000 in gold and head back to Cheyenne?

  It must be something that rated top priority.

  As soon as Jim Hume introduced Luke Farrell to Nash, the Wells Fargo detective took an instant dislike to him.

  He had heard of him over the years: there wasn’t a man in the West who hadn’t heard of Luke Farrell, the Wyoming Cattle King. He wasn’t liked anywhere—and had more enemies than the United States itself, so it was said. He had ridden roughshod over all opposition to build up his huge Diamond F spread and he had a finger in many pies throughout the country.

  He stood at least four inches over six feet and must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. It was all solid muscle, too, despite his fifty years. Farrell hadn’t let himself run to fat, even though he was rich enough to sit back and have others do his chores for him. That was the one thing about the man that Nash admired; he got out among the cowboys on his ranch and pitched in with whatever chore needed doing.

  But he was arrogant and aggressive, had an insulting way of looking at folk as he summed them up. Nash bristled as he shook hands with the big rancher in Jim Hume’s office above the Wells Fargo Depot in Cheyenne.

  “So you’re Wells Fargo’s top gun,” Farrell said flatly. “Well, you don’t look nothin’ to me, mister. Just like any saddle tramp I’d feed and then kick off my spread.”

  “Mebbe I’d kick back if you tried it,” Nash retorted. Jim Hume’s eyebrows shot up and he made swift, placating gestures for Nash to take it easy. That, too, surprised the detective, for there were few men who could faze Jim Hume. But he met and held Farrell’s gaze defiantly.

  “I’ll have none of your sass,” Farrell snapped. “You’re here to do a job for me and I don’t have any man workin’ for me who answers back.”

  “Far as I know, I’m still workin’ for Wells Fargo,” Nash said and flicked his eyes towards Hume.

  “Just a minute, Clay. You, too, Mr. Farrell,” Hume said tersely. “First of all, Clay’s here simply because I sent for him. I did that because I was instructed to assign my top man to your problem—only on the terms that my man wants the job.” He held up a hand as Farrell started to interrupt. “Yeah, yeah, I know how much you’ve invested in Wells Fargo and I’m aware of the authority and power it gives you, but, I only answer to Mr. Fargo and Mr. Wells. They’re willin’ to help you out, but I’m damn sure they don’t mean for you to ride roughshod over me or my operatives.”

  Hume, a blocky man appearing shorter than he was because of his broad shoulders and thick chest, put his heavy hands on the desk and looked unflinchingly at the big rancher seated opposite. Nash took out his cigarette papers and tobacco and began to build a cigarette.

  He felt better, knowing that Hume was backing him in his stand against Farrell. Not that he would stand for straight-out rebellion or disobedience. Far from it. Jim Hume wouldn’t hesitate to jump on Nash with both feet or even fire him on the spot if he figured he were getting out of line. Hume was every bit as tough as Luke Farrell and the big rancher was slowly beginning to realize it.

  He nodded curtly to Hume, his mouth drawn into a disapproving line. The rancher glanced up as Nash fired a vesta with his thumbnail and lit his cigarette.

  “You better be as good as your reputation, Nash.”

  Clay Nash said nothing, waved out the vesta and deliberately flicked it so that it missed the ashtray on the edge of the desk and bounced into Farrell’s lap. Hume frowned disapprovingly but Nash looked completely innocent.

  “Sorry,” he said, taking no pains to make it sound as if he meant it.

  Farrell stared at him for a few seconds then nodded. It was an acknowledgement that he had met someone just about as tough as himself: it was probably a very difficult thing to do, but he was intelligent enough to know that unless he took pains not to upset these men, he wasn’t going to get the help he wanted.

  The help he needed.

  “Well, I think we all understand each other now,” Hume said in quieter tones, moving to a sideboy. “I suggest we all have a drink and then get down to tin tacks.”

  No one argued with that, and after sipping the brandy he poured them, Jim Hume turned to Nash.

  “I’ve put Dakota Haines on that other assignment, Clay. He’ll go down into Utah and organize a raid on that Prince spread and see if Jubal can be nailed. Preferably with the gold.”

  Nash nodded. “Dakota’s a good man,” he allowed. “Must be mighty important, this other chore, to drag me off that one.”

  “It is,” Farrell snapped but Nash continued to look at Hume for an explanati
on.

  However, the Chief of Detectives gestured towards the rancher. “I think perhaps Mr. Farrell can best explain, Clay. As you’ve probably already gathered, he’s a major shareholder in Wells Fargo and this entitles him to somewhat special treatment with his particular problem. I’d like you to remember that. At all times.”

  Nash smiled faintly into his brandy glass at Hume’s warning, but he nodded and turned his gaze to the big rancher.

  “You know a man named Largo Brewster?” Farrell snapped suddenly.

  Nash frowned. After a time he shook his head. “Not personally. But I know he’s an outlaw. Heads a wild bunch that operates over in the Dakotas.”

  Farrell was staring levelly at Nash. “He does. Has done for years but always managing to stay a jump ahead of the law. He used to operate in Wyoming. Started out here.”

  Nash sipped his brandy as Farrell paused, waiting for the man to continue. The rancher suddenly leaned forward.

  “Largo Brewster is a son of a bitch. He tried to homestead some of my range years ago. I kicked him off. He hung about the hills, got himself a gang, raised hell for a time, rustlin’ my stock and burnin’ my pastures. Then he branched out, started lootin’ and killin’ other settlers—as well as robbing the odd bank and stagecoach. Got himself somethin’ of a reputation and a bounty on his head. When things got too damn hot he cleared out for the Dakotas.”

  Farrell paused, his face ugly with memories as he tossed down the remains of his drink with a jerky motion. His eyes were cold and hard when he turned back to Nash.

  “But I went after him. I’d had enough of losses with my herds and so on. I got me a posse and we chased that sidewinder clear into North Dakota before we caught up with him. I strung him up to the nearest tree along with his gang ...”

  Nash frowned and sat straighter in his chair. “But he’s still alive.”

  Farrell nodded, his mouth grim. “Yeah. The bastard beat the rope. Don’t ask me how. Someone must’ve come back after we left and cut him down. There was still enough life in him, apparently, to save him. And Brewster’s been raisin’ hell ever since.” He paused again, then added: “Now he’s come back to Wyoming.”