Clay Nash 7 Page 3

  They seemed surprised at first, then apprehensive, and they flicked their gazes from Considine to Nash and back to the gunfighter again. Nash saw several heads get together immediately and begin discussing them. He figured it must have something to do with the fact that Considine had been here before. At least, the man claimed it was in Socorro that he had gunned down the brother of the big bearded man they had buried back there beside the Magdalena Trail. Nash distinctly saw two men pointing at the horse that was being ridden by Considine before they angled across towards the wide doors of the livery.

  They dismounted just inside the sun washed walls and the stable man came towards them a little warily, nodding briefly.

  “Mornin’, gents. Put ’em up?” he said, gesturing towards the mounts, then seemed to stiffen as he saw the gunfighter’s horse. He squinted closely at Considine, and Nash heard him suck in a sharp breath. “Judas! Didn’t recognize you against the sunlight!” The man glanced sharply at Nash too. He was distinctly wary now.

  “Yeah,” Considine said and Nash thought there was cool amusement in the man’s voice. “You can put up the horses. Groom, stall and feed ’em. Send the bill to me.”

  “Yes sir,” the liveryman said swiftly.

  “No need for that,” Nash said.

  “Sure there is,” Considine said, smiling faintly. “I owe you somethin’. Let’s go talk about it over a drink.”

  “Kind of early.”

  “We’ll have somethin’ to eat then,” Considine said. He flicked his cold eyes to the stable hand who was regarding both men warily. “You have that horse of mine ready to go in an hour and keep him that way till I come for him. Savvy?”

  “Sure thing!” the man said swiftly. “You can depend on me!”

  “That better be right,” the gunfighter said, turning towards the stable doors.

  Nash reached up and took his rifle out of the saddle scabbard as his horse was led away and the two men walked back across the plaza, in the early sunlight, towards a cafe. Folks stared openly, and a few veered off, eyeing the rifle that Nash carried easily in his left hand. He spotted the Wells Fargo Depot across the way, hesitated, but then figured there was no great rush. He could have a meal first. It would be good to tuck a thick beefsteak under his belt.

  In the cafe, the waitress was nervous, clattering the dishes, dropping the cutlery, spilling coffee from the cup into the saucer. Nash noticed but said nothing. Neither man spoke until they had finished their steaks and eggs and piles of thick buttered cornpone.

  “Needed that,” Nash said, loosening his belt a notch, watching the waitress stare at them nervously. “Thanks.”

  Considine waved it aside. “Least I can do after you pullin’ me out of that hole.” He chuckled. “Literally!”

  Nash smiled faintly. “What you aiming to do now?”

  The gunfighter shrugged. “Might stick around here a spell till my leg’s completely better. Then I’ll move on. North, south, east or west, as the mood takes me.”

  Nash looked at him closely, measuring his words before he spoke. “You look as if you know how to use that six-gun.”

  Considine returned his stare. “Yeah.”

  Nash waited but Considine said no more and the Wells Fargo man decided to let it go. It was no business of his, anyway. He had bought in because the man was being tortured by those two hombres back along the Magdalena, and he had killed them because they had been trying to kill him. When you got right down to it, that was the extent of his involvement. If Considine didn’t want to give him the full picture, that was his business. Nash had no right to probe, even though he was curious about the stares he was getting. He figured it had to be because he was in company with Considine. And there was something about that lean man’s horse, too. He had seen the shock it had given the stable man when he had recognized it.

  Nash stood up slowly, lighting the cigarette he had just rolled and shaking out the vesta. “Well, I’d best report in to the depot. Glad to have met you, Considine.”

  The gunfighter rose and extended his right hand. Nash gripped firmly, though briefly, with him. The man’s eyes held to Nash’s face. “I still owe you. Could come a time when you can use a little help, the kind I can give. You just holler, Nash.”

  Nash smiled slowly. “I reckon not, but thanks, anyway. Adios now.”

  “Adios.”

  Nash lifted his Winchester and the waitress watched with wide eyes as he moved out of the cafe. She looked fearfully at Considine as the tall gunfighter sat down again and called for another cup of coffee.

  The Wells Fargo agent in Socorro was named Brewster. He was a man in his early forties, beefy, balding, with a thick neck and muscular arms. He glanced up from stacking some outward-bound luggage as one of the clerks called his name. The man gestured to the doorway where Nash was just entering and Brewster stiffened. He dusted off his hands, wishing he had thought to wear a pistol. He was totally unarmed. He didn’t like the look of the rifle in Nash’s hand but he walked forward slowly and nodded civilly enough, though his tension was obvious.

  “Howdy. Somethin’ I can do for you?”

  Nash nodded. “You Tad Brewster?”

  “I am,” the agent answered warily. “Who might you be?”

  “Clay Nash. Jim Hume would’ve sent you a wire I’d likely be through here.”

  Brewster frowned as he stared. “Nash? A Wells Fargo man? I’ll have to see some identification.”

  Nash gave him a hard look, laid his rifle on the counter and gestured to the engraving on the backstrap as he dug out some papers in a small leather folder from his shirt pocket. He handed them to Brewster who studied the papers carefully, frowning deeper as he glanced up and gave Nash back the wallet.

  “Description tallies and so on,” he said slowly. “But, what in hell are you doin’ with that killer?”

  Nash arched his eyebrows. “Considine?”

  “Yeah. You know he killed the sheriff’s brother here a couple of days back?”

  Nash stiffened. “The sheriff’s brother?”

  “Sure, Lucas Enderby. He’s the sheriff. Had a kid brother, hardcase, swaggerer, name of Mitch. He called out Considine, right in the plaza, and got himself gunned down for the trouble. Considine quit town in his own good time, but when the sheriff came in, he took off after him with his deputy, Morg Wheeler. We just seen Considine forkin’ Wheeler’s horse when he rode in, and you were with him.”

  Nash’s face was a mixture of incredulity and rising anger. “This sheriff ... Enderby, you said? He was out of town when Considine gunned down his brother?”

  “Yeah. He’s a kind of part-time sheriff. Not much of a lawman, but a tough hombre, the kind we need in a trail town like Socorro. But he hunts buffalo too, and he was out workin’ a herd when Mitch got gunned down. Wheeler was with him, I guess.”

  Nash swore and Brewster and his clerk raised their eyebrows.

  “What’s up?” Brewster said. “Listen, I better tell you, it was fair and square. Mitch did the callin’ and Considine gave him the breaks. It was a clean shoot-out, but no one could explain that to Lucas. Wouldn’t make no never mind with him, anyway.”

  Nash sighed heavily. “Yeah, well he and Wheeler caught up with Considine. I rode in when they had him pinned under a dead horse and were gettin’ set to burn off his hair. They’d already half-choked him with sand.”

  Brewster nodded. “Sounds like our ever-popular sheriff. He’s a mean son of a bitch.”

  “Was,” Nash corrected him.

  “Huh?”

  “Was a mean son of a bitch. I killed him. Wheeler, too.” Brewster and his clerk were silent for a few moments and then Brewster leaned heavily back against the counter and blew out his cheeks.

  “Hell almighty!” he breathed.

  Nash’s mouth was taut and grim. “They never identified themselves as lawmen. Far as I knew they were a couple of rannies torturing a helpless man, looking for vengeance, sure, but that didn’t excuse them for actin’ like loco Ap
aches.”

  “Hell almighty!” Brewster breathed again, shaking his head slowly. “Man, what in blazes have you done?”

  “Told you,” Nash said curtly. “They didn’t identify themselves. Anyway, they tried to kill me, too.”

  Brewster shook his head again. “Well, I admit Lucas Enderby weren’t any kind of lawman to write home about, but he was all we had here. No one else wanted the job. He was corrupt and a damn bully, but he kept a semblance of order when the trail men hit town. Judas! I just thought.” He turned to the clerk. “Didn’t someone say earlier Macklin’s herd had been sighted?”

  The man nodded. “Be here before noon.”

  Brewster blew out his cheeks again, shaking his head slowly. “You ain’t gonna be popular around these parts, Nash, leavin’ us without a lawman right now! Them trail herders of Macklin’s will tear Socorro apart!”

  Nash merely looked at him soberly, but there was anger building up in his eyes.

  “We sent for a U.S. Marshal, Mr. Brewster,” the clerk reminded the agent hesitantly.

  “Hell, that was weeks ago,” Brewster scowled. He turned back to Nash. “This town’s decent citizens finally had enough of Lucas Enderby runnin’ things just as he pleased around here, so we sent off a report to the Federal Marshals, but we ain’t heard a thing yet.”

  “Seems to me, if Enderby was that bad, he won’t be much missed.”

  “He was the only law we had and that was better than nothin’ ... which is what you’ve left us with now, Nash.”

  Clay Nash held the man’s gaze until he looked away and then asked quietly, “When’s the next stage out for Santa Fe?”

  Brewster blinked, taken a little aback by the abrupt change of subject. “Er—sundown. But what—”

  “Fine. Book me a seat on it,” Nash cut in. “You got a telegraph office here?”

  “Rear of the general store,” Brewster said. “We’re gonna have one attached to the depot here sometime but …”

  “It’s now I want it,” Nash said and picked up his rifle, turned abruptly and walked out of the depot.

  “So that’s the famous Clay Nash,” the clerk said.

  “Yeah. Looks as tough as the stories about him too, but it don’t change the fact that he’s left Socorro in one hell of a mess, now that he’s killed Enderby.”

  Three – Law in Socorro

  The telegraphist was surprised when he read the wire Nash wanted him to send. He snapped his head up sharply.

  “You a Wells Fargo man?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And your pard ... Considine. Don’t tell me he’s a company man too!”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t figure he could be.” The man shook his head slowly. “Seen him forkin’ Deputy Wheeler’s mount. Guess he got him out in the badlands, huh?”

  Nash sighed. “No, I did.” He told the man briefly what had happened.

  The telegraphist’s reaction was about the same as Brewster’s. He was worried about the town being without any law at all when the trail herds were due.

  “Not only that, but Considine gets to actin’ real mean when he downs a few redeyes,” he added. “Hell, reckon I’ll stay off the streets and tell my wife and kids to do the same.”

  Nash frowned. “You think it’s really gonna be that bad?”

  “You ain’t seen Macklin’s bunch, or you wouldn’t ask that, mister! And with Considine on the loose, too, this town’s gonna explode.”

  Nash scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw, then pointed a finger at the message form. “Hold that wire for awhile.” Then he turned and walked swiftly through the front of the store and out. Still carrying his rifle, he strode across the plaza to the cafe and slammed inside. The startled waitress behind the counter jumped and cowered back when she saw his face as he looked around the empty dining room.

  “Don’t be alarmed, miss,” Nash said. “That other feller I was eating with earlier; you see where he went?”

  The girl swallowed and nodded, pointing through the curtain-hung front window. “He went right across to the saloon.”

  Nash nodded, turned and hurried out, striding purposefully across to the saloon called “The Buckskin Bar.” He used his rifle barrel to push open the batwings and stepped into the cool gloom of the big room, leaning back against the wall to the left of the doors while he let his sight become accustomed to the shadowed room. He saw the barkeep polishing glasses, two or three other men drinking at a table, talking in low voices, and at a small table over against the wall that faced the batwings, Considine. There was a bottle of redeye and a glass before him. He toyed with the glass, using his left hand. His right hand was out of sight beneath the table top.

  The gunfighter nodded civilly as Nash walked up. He used a boot to kick out a chair and gestured to it with an inclination of his head.

  “Set a spell and have a drink. Barkeep!” He lifted his voice and the man behind the bar snapped his head up. “Another glass.”

  “Forget it,” Nash told the barkeep as the man hurriedly snatched up a fresh shot glass and started around the end of the counter. The man stopped, confused, looking from Nash to Considine. The gunfighter shrugged; it made no difference to him. Nash sat down in the chair, turning it so that he straddled it, arms leaning on the straight back, his rifle propped against the table edge. He watched as the gunfighter lifted his glass and drained it. The man poured himself another drink, using only his left hand, watching Nash’s face, reading it.

  “You look kind of proddy,” he opined.

  “I am,” Nash admitted. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me they were lawmen out there?” He gestured vaguely towards the Magdalena and the badlands.

  Considine’s eyes were steady on his face. “Would it have made any difference? They were still gonna kill you.”

  Nash sighed. “Guess that’s right. But maybe I would’ve taken a different kind of tack if I’d known they were lawmen.”

  “They could’ve told you,” the gunfighter pointed out. “Was nothin’ to stop ’em showin’ you their badges ... if they even had ’em with ’em, which I doubt. They were a couple of snakes, deserved killin’.”

  “Got to go along with you on that,” Nash admitted, but there was still an edge of anger in his voice. “But now this town’s without any law and there are trail herds comin’ in and this is gonna be one hell of a place for the women and kids.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, it’s so! And it all comes back to you gunnin’ down the sheriff’s brother.”

  Considine shrugged. He didn’t reckon that was worth answering.

  “No, I guess you couldn’t avoid that,” Nash admitted suddenly. “Damn it, Considine! You’ve put me on a spot! In savin’ your neck I’ve left this town without any law, right at a time those cowpokes are gonna bust loose. I feel kind of responsible.”

  “You’re loco. But if you feel so bad about it, why don’t you pin on the sheriff’s star? You’re about as close to a lawman as might be found around here right now.”

  Nash thought about that. It had been in the back of his mind, even when he told the telegraphist to hold the message he had been sending to Jim Hume.

  “I might just do that,” Nash said.

  Considine looked at him over the rim of his glass as he raised it and drank the whisky at a gulp.

  “If I do,” Nash went on slowly, “could be I’ll have to tell you to move along.”

  The gunfighter lowered his glass slowly to the table top. “That so?” he asked quietly.

  “Town seems to be kind of buffaloed by you.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Nash merely looked at him. Then he said, “They, figure you turn kind of mean when you’ve got some redeye under your belt. Like now. Might be a dangerous situation with you like that and a bunch of high-ridin’ cowpokes cuttin’ loose in the same town.”

  Considine poured another whisky and sipped it slowly. “I reckon I’ll move along when I’m ready, Nash. I wouldn’
t try to hurry me if I was you.”

  “Like I said, I might figure it’s in the town’s best interests to move you along before the cowpokes arrive.”

  Considine drank slowly and said nothing.

  “You aim to give me trouble if I do?” Nash persisted.

  “Well, seein’ as it’s only theory, I guess it don’t really matter, does it?” the gunfighter said. “When you do decide to pin on that star, and you get around to askin’ me to leave, we’ll talk about it then.”

  Nash turned to the barkeep and the other drinkers in the big room. “Word’ll get to you sooner or later that your sheriff’s dead,” he told them. “I killed him. You’ll hear how it came about. Way I figure it, he won’t be missed a hell of a lot, but this town’s kind of leery about Macklin’s trail crew ... and Considine here. I’m Clay Nash, and I work for Wells Fargo as an investigator. I’m about the nearest thing to law around these parts right now. Because I gunned down your sheriff, I’m willing to take on the job of lawman until the U.S. Marshal you’ve sent for gets here. Would you fellers have any objections to that?”

  They were quick to say that they had no objections at all, but they were looking at Considine rather than Nash. They already sensed that here lay the real threat to the town. Maybe they didn’t quite understand why, but there was something menacing about the gunfighter’s presence here.

  Nash nodded and said, “I’d be obliged if you’d tell the rest of the town. And I’ll be glad to pin on the tin star and take oath-of-office right out there in the plaza if folks want it that way. There’s one proviso: my boss in Santa Fe has to agree. I’ll be here till the sundown stage leaves, in any case, and I’ll enforce the law, at least, until that time, but it’s up to Jim Hume whether I stay on any longer.”

  He turned back to Considine now. “And it’s up to other folk whether I need to stay on any longer, Considine.”

  The gunfighter downed another whisky. “Damn you, Nash,” he hissed. “You’re puttin’ me on a spot, man, and I don’t like it.”