Clay Nash 12 Read online

  Hume might send him almost anywhere in the Union and it wasn’t always practicable to ship out a man’s mount with him. It was usually a sight easier and faster to get the man to the trouble spot as quickly as possible by train or stage and, once there, the agent could hire whatever kind of horse he thought he might need. Sometimes there was no need for a mount, the trouble being able to be fixed locally. In any case, Nash, though sorry in a way to part with the chestnut, felt happy enough with the deal.

  Though he did wonder at the time what Tibbs would want with a good mountain horse.

  Strange man, Grant Tibbs, the big agent thought as he swung out of Elliott into Altitude Plaza and crossed it towards the Wells Fargo building, dodging between wagons and timber-buckers drawn by strings of laboring oxen. There had been some rain recently and the plaza was churned to mud. He made his way around the edges, looking for firm ground, but still managed to cover his boots in muck by the time he could get onto the boardwalk.

  Yeah, Grant Tibbs was a tough hombre in his own way, and had had a good enough record with the company. Nash had known him when he’d been a shotgun guard and again when the man had opened up the agency in Baptism Springs. They had never been friends—but they had talked a few times. Tibbs had been ambitious. Getting his own agency at Baptism Springs had pleased him but he had made it plain that it was only going to be a springboard to bigger and better things for him. But the railroad had kicked the supports from under the stage agency and he had become little more than a dispatch, clerk.

  He had reason to be bitter, Nash supposed, when he thought about it. But he knew the company wouldn’t leave Tibbs there for any longer than was necessary: they didn’t abandon good men. However, it was plain that Tibbs seemed to figure he had been there much too long ...

  Nash put the thoughts from his mind as he got to the Wells Fargo building and entered. After a few minutes he made his way to the second floor and along the passage to Jim Hume’s private office.

  It wasn’t large, but it was quiet and the walls were lined with dozens of file drawers, all labeled. Hume could work there undisturbed, if he wished, and he knew exactly where to go to select the file he required. He was a man who liked everything orderly and he reveled in research work and detail. In particular, he loved a challenge, as he had shown in the eight years he had persevered before tracking down and arresting the notorious Black Bart through a laundry mark in San Francisco.

  He was a blocky man, giving an impression of brute strength. But there was an inner strength there, too, when a man looked into those candid, level eyes that could be soft and warm in friendship or cold and hard in enmity. He wore a Prince Albert coat and stiff collar with black tie and a small diamond stud holding it flat against the front of his striped shirt. He had a moustache in the style of the day, though, lately, he had taken to waxing the ends. His thinning hair was parted on the left, almost at ear level, and swept across a shiny scalp in pomaded strands, curling up slightly at the right hand side. Mostly, he wore a brown derby hat even if he travelled on assignment with Nash or one of his other operatives. Only rarely did he abandon the hat for the more practical Stetson of the frontier.

  Hume glanced up irritably from a mound of papers scattered across his desk as Nash entered. There were other papers piled on the floor by the desk legs, but Nash knew that, though it looked disorderly, Hume would be able to pick up whichever paper he required unhesitatingly. He was wearing a dark green eyeshade and he pushed it up as the big agent removed his hat.

  “Ah, Clay.” He sat back in his chair and then stood up, offering a meaty hand to Nash who shook briefly and firmly. “Was hoping you’d turn up within the next day or so.”

  His face straightened as he saw the look on Nash’s features. Hume sighed and dropped back into his chair.

  “I know, you were figuring you had some leave due, right?”

  “Damn right,” Nash said with feeling. “I’ve done eight assignments in a row without any kind of a break and I’m wound up tight as a cottage clock, Jim. You ain’t gonna tell me you’ve got something else you want me to go out on right away, I hope?”

  Hume opened his humidor and took out two large cigars. He pierced the ends of both and handed one to Nash. Then he went through an elaborate ritual of lighting both cigars, running the vesta flame over the mouth ends of the rolled tobacco leaves, and warming them to mellow taste. He didn’t look at Nash until the ritual was finished, then he sat back in his chair, puffed a thick cloud of aromatic smoke into the room and peered at the operative with the slightest trace of a smile.

  Nash suddenly held up a hand.

  “Don’t bother with all the rigmarole, Jim. I’m way ahead of you. There is somethin’ and no one else can handle it except me an’ you’re sorry but you’re short of men and there’s no way around it, it just has to be me.”

  Hume stared at him steadily.

  “Sorry, Clay.”

  “Sorry, hell,” muttered Nash edgily. “Wells Fargo must be in a hell of a bad shape if all the investigators are out on assignments, is all I can say.”

  Hume seemed amused.

  “Yeah ... Guess we would kind of be going downhill at that.”

  Nash frowned. “You tellin’ me I’m right? That there are other investigators available but you’re picking me for whatever chore you’ve got up your sleeve?”

  Hume sighed and blew out a long plume of blue smoke.

  “It’s kind of big to keep up my sleeve, Clay. Fact, this is the biggest chore that’s ever come my way. Our way. And I need your help. I know you’re plumb tuckered and you want a break and I’d aimed to give you one after the Baptism Springs job was finished.” He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “But I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Nash said wearily. “There are plenty of other good men on your staff, Jim. I’ve had it, amigo. I mean it. I’m gettin’ round in a daze half the time. If I ain’t careful, I’m gonna get my head shot off just through bein’ careless, because I’m walkin’ about half asleep.”

  “Yeah, I know the danger of that, Clay. Look, this isn’t the usual kind of chore. You’ll be able to stay right here in Denver for a spell and ought to be able to get in at least six hours’ sleep a night.” He paused. “For a couple of weeks anyway,” he added lamely.

  Nash frowned, but his voice didn’t sound so angry when he spoke again. “Well, I guess that sounds a little better. But what kind of chore is this?”

  “Like I said, not the usual sort.” Hume leaned forward. He placed his elbows on the desk and gazed at the big man across from him. “As you know, they’ve got the federal mint operating in Denver now. They’ve minted the first hundred thousand dollars in gold coins and they’re to be shipped to Washington.”

  Clay Nash paused with his cigar halfway to his lips. “The whole hundred thousand?”

  Hume nodded.

  “All at the one time?”

  “I told you this wasn’t the usual sort of chore.”

  “You’re serious?”

  Hume didn’t even bother to nod his head as he flicked ash off his cigar.

  “Washington needs the money for some foreign policy dealings, Clay. They have to have it in a month. We’ve got that long to find a secure way of shipping it from the mint.”

  “You mean—Wells Fargo has the contract for getting that amount of gold through, all the way to Washington?” Nash shook his head slowly. “That’s some deal. Why don’t they use the army? A whole damn battalion?”

  “We’ll be calling on the army, don’t worry. We’ve got authority from the President to call upon anyone we need to help us. But we’ve got such a fine reputation for getting things through, that we’ve been awarded the contract. No need to tell you that if anything happens to that gold before it reaches Washington, the company’ll have to make good the loss. We’ll be ruined.”

  “You need more than just me to help you on this, Jim.”

  “Sure—but I need you now, Clay. I’m in the planning stage. I need your brain. Late
r, I’ll need your brawn, too, most likely, but for now, I want you to check this deal over with me and help me work out a route and a security structure. If you’re feeling as tuckered as you look, I reckon it might be best if you hit the hay for a spell and we’ll get started on this first thing in the morning.”

  Nash nodded, standing.

  “I reckon that’s a good idea, Jim. It’s sure going to be one hell of a chore.”

  “There’s a lot at stake, Clay,” Hume told him soberly. “We can’t miss on this one.”

  Clay Nash said nothing as he hefted his gear once more and walked slowly out of the office. He doubted if he would get much sleep with something like this swirling around in his head. But, of course, that was why Jim Hume had told him just enough to get his interest. He knew Nash wouldn’t be able to resist the challenge and, despite himself and his weariness, would start planning right away.

  It was why Hume had said they would get started first thing in the morning. He knew Nash would be eager to go, champing at the bit and ready to present his thoughts and ideas.

  Although it is doubtful that Jim Hume had heard of the word ‘psychology’, he was probably one of the first to use it.

  Chapter Three – A Gathering of Ghosts

  They called him Mohawk Brown. He was a rawboned man with high cheekbones and a squashed nose. His eyes were like almonds and he had black hair that hung to his shoulders.

  There were many stories about him and how he came by his name but it wasn’t really important; the main thing that folk remembered about Mohawk Brown was that he was a ruthless killer.

  He was a violent man and killed without thought. Mohawk Brown didn’t mind which method he used: gun, knife, fists, boots or a rock. He could strangle a man expertly with a shoelace. No one was sure where he came from except that it was one of the eastern states. Some said he had originally hailed from over the seas, from Ireland or one of the European countries. But, whatever his origins, Mohawk Brown was a man who would be long remembered on the frontier. He was wanted for murder in seven states.

  And he had recently formed his own bunch of men: as ruthless a band of hardcases as any of the pirate crews of the old Caribbean.

  Mohawk walked among his men as they sat their mounts on the slope that overlooked the old ghost town called Resurrection. Mohawk motioned one of the men into the trees then walked into some rocks and sprawled out, picking up the pair of field glasses that rested beside a man lying there with a rifle.

  “Anythin’?” he asked, adjusting the focus.

  “One rider. Looked like that freighter hombre from Julesburg,” the guard replied and pointed with the rifle barrel. “On the porch of the old saloon.”

  Mohawk swung the glasses and found the old saloon by its sagging, weathered front, then eased down to pick out the man on the porch. He made a fine adjustment to the focus and studied the man; he was dressed in a frockcoat and striped trousers, wore a flat, black hat and sat nursing the big Frontier Colt that he normally carried in the oiled rig on his hip. He was about forty, thick-set, with a pendulous underlip and a splayed nose. Mohawk nodded slowly.

  “Yeah ... that’s Tod Burman,” he murmured. “Always was eager where there was a buck to be made.”

  “Two riders, Mohawk,” one of the mounted men called.

  The outlaw chief hipped and using the glasses, saw the riders almost immediately, picking them out just as they joined company at the juncture of two ancient trails. He grunted.

  “Sam Castle from Rollin’ C Ranch and that crooked lawman, Pres Hayden from ...”

  His voice trailed off and the guard beside him furnished the name of the sheriff’s town: “Willow Bend. A Christer town.”

  Mohawk nodded slowly; he knew all about Hayden’s righteous town, run by folk from the Bible Belt. The lawman attended church each Sunday and put on a pious outward appearance. It would shake those smug townsfolk to their heels if they knew their lawman was one of the Ghost Riders. The sheriff was in his late twenties but there was bitterness showing in his face far beyond his years. He was thin and short but mighty fast with a gun. As there was little profit to be made with his talents in such a peaceful place as Willow Bend, he had searched for other outlets that would net him some cash.

  The Ghost Riders suited him right down to the ground, for it allowed him to continue his righteous appearance while he filled his pockets—to overflowing.

  His companion, Sam Castle, was in his fifties, a man who looked as though he had been carved out of the rugged country; his face was as eroded as some of the draws he had to ride through on his way to the ghost town from his ranch in Rawhide Valley. His grim, leathery lips were partially hidden by the drooping moustache, and his chill, blue eyes were never still, roaming restlessly all the time he rode. It was one way Sam Castle had managed to survive, from the days when he had fought off Indians in his valley to the present time, when outlaws and lawmen alike could be stalking him.

  For Castle was a rich man in his own right and it had puzzled Mohawk Brown considerably why he had ever joined up with the Ghost Riders. He guessed no man ever had enough money and could always find use for more.

  “They’re all on time, Mohawk,” the guard said.

  “All except the last one,” Mohawk answered, sweeping the glasses around the ghost town to watch the others meeting outside the tumbledown saloon.

  They didn’t shake hands; they nodded to each other and then lined up on the porch. Mohawk smiled faintly as he saw their faces turn towards the ridge where he and his men were hiding. They would be a mite jumpy when they didn’t see his crew, but that was all right with Mohawk: he was dealing and he aimed to play the cards his way.

  “Here he comes,” the guard said.

  Mohawk looked towards the western trail that entered the ghost town at the far end of the main street. He could see the rider’s dust rising from behind the old shack. He kept the glasses focused on the corner of the shack and waited.

  A minute later, the rider came into view and Mohawk examined him closely for a long spell before nodding and handing the glasses back to the guard as he stood up.

  “Yeah, that’s Grant Tibbs, all right. Let’s get on down there and put on a show of strength for ’em.”

  He mounted and walked his horse to the head of his men. There were nine apart from Mohawk. He adjusted his battered hat and made a sweeping, forward gesture. They rode down from the ridge and by the time they had reached Main, the others were standing on the saloon porch, waiting. Mohawk lined his men up in a half-circle.

  All his riders had rifles or shotguns balanced on their knees as they faced the others. Mohawk folded his hands on his saddlehorn and nodded to the gathered men on the porch.

  “Howdy, gents. See you all got here safe and sound.”

  “You were supposed to be here when we arrived,” snapped Tod Burman.

  “We was,” Mohawk told him and jerked his head towards the ridge.

  Burman flushed a little.

  “You’re supposed to be guardin’ this here town, to see that no one comes in between meetin’ times. You ain’t supposed to be galivantin’ all over the country.”

  Mohawk’s eyes slitted even more than usual.

  “Who says I was?”

  “I had reports of your wild bunch cuttin’ up rough down in Conifer, Mohawk,” Pres Hayden said, his voice surprisingly deep for such a thin man.

  The outlaw leader shrugged. “We ain’t monks. We ain’t gonna sit here and twiddle our thumbs till you fellers decide there’s another job you want to pull and so call a meetin’. We got our own business to tend to.”

  “Wasn’t the arrangement, Mohawk,” Sam Castle said mildly.

  Mohawk shrugged. “Who the hell cares? I make my own.” He raked his steely eyes around the group. “Anyone object?”

  “You’ll know when we do,” Tibbs said.

  The outlaw set his gaze on the Wells Fargo agent.

  “That so? How?”

  “We’ll kill you,” Tibb
s answered calmly; his indifference seeming to lend more weight to his words.

  One or two of the outlaws moved uneasily in their saddles. Mohawk Brown kept his face blank, though his eyes were glittering fiercely.

  “Any time you want to try,” he invited.

  “Hold up, hold up,” said Burman suddenly. “We didn’t come here to argue. The town’s okay, so I guess that’s all that matters. But you make sure you keep it that way, Mohawk.”

  “I stick to my deals. I left two men on permanent guard when we hit Conifer,” he said, reluctant to explain even this much, but the freighter was right: they didn’t meet to argue. If the Ghost Riders had called a session, then something was in the wind.

  Something that could profit them all.

  “All right, let’s call it settled,” Tibbs said impatiently. “We better get started on this meeting, because when you hear what I got to say, you’re gonna be stood on your ears.”

  They went into the saloon and Mohawk positioned his men outside at various vantage points around the town, then followed the others into the old barroom. Part of the shingles in the roof was missing and sunlight filtered through in a slanting shaft.

  Mohawk sat on the edge of the bar and rapped his heels against the front panel until the others frowned at him. He stopped moving his legs and shrugged. All attention was fixed on Grant Tibbs.

  The Wells Fargo man hunkered on his heels and raked his gaze around the group.

  “We agreed when we formed the Ghost Riders that we’d only meet for jobs that we figured were worthwhile, right?”

  “We don’t have to go through all that,” Pres Hayden said impatiently.

  Tibbs nodded slowly. “Guess not. All I wanted to say was that what I got to tell you is the most worthwhile thing we’re ever gonna come across.” He paused and looked around at their expectant faces with a faint smile. “Our biggest haul to date has been the bank at Julesburg, nicely set up for us by Tod Burman there.”