Clay Nash 3 Read online

  Five – Madame Mustang

  The sheriff of Yuma was a man named Buck Petersen and he was one tough hombre. He had shot it out with most of the wild bunches in the Territory, faced-down men who figured they could get their guns out faster than he could, and headed several posses that had brought in outlaws roped across their saddles. He was a man who had had his share of bullet wounds, he carried a couple of knife scars and his hands had knuckles that had obviously been broken many times.

  But Petersen was impressed with the work of Nash and Haines when he looked at the three dead outlaws draped over the horses in front of his office. Hess was sitting slumped in the saddle with his hands roped to the saddle horn.

  “You fellers’ve been a mite busy, I see,” he said, lifting his hat and scratching at his scalp. At the same time he waved back the crowd of folk who came running down the street. “And who might these hombres be?”

  “Clint Christian’s men,” Nash told him, gesturing to Hess. “Frank Hess. He’s an ex-railroad man. Seems they couldn’t have pulled off the robbery without him. He knew schedules and how to make the train inoperative and so on. He’s talked plenty and maybe you can get some more out of him.”

  “Reckon you had yourselves quite a time gettin’ these hombres,” opined the lawman. “You want a posse to go after Christian?”

  Nash shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t know where he’s hangin’ out. But we’ve got a couple of leads. Sheriff, there’s a bounty on all these hombres, put up by Wells Fargo and the railroad. Will you see it’s paid over to the Moran family?”

  “I sure will, and gladly,” Petersen said. He squinted at the two tough Wells Fargo agents. “Nice gesture. So long as you can prove these dead ’uns were members of the Christian gang, I see no problem.”

  Haines glanced at the silent Hess. “He’ll prove it for us. Won’t you, Frank?”

  Hess, still shaken by his experience and knowing the tough reputation of Sheriff Petersen, merely nodded slowly.

  “Can we leave ’em with you, Sheriff?” Nash asked. “Or do you want us to take Hess out to the Territorial prison?”

  “Be glad to do it. Coroner can get these other fellers packed in ice. You in kind of a hurry, are you?”

  Nash nodded shortly. “Followin’ a lead.”

  “Anythin’ I can help with?” Petersen asked eagerly. He had been champing at the bit since being told to ease up on the case, as it was Wells Fargo business.

  Nash glanced around at the small crowd of people who had gathered to stare at the dead men and Hess, and he saw that they were talking amongst themselves. He swiveled his gaze to Haines who shrugged and then leaned forward across the saddle horn.

  “Two things. Sheriff,” Nash said in a low voice. “Where does this michauca brush grow? And we’re looking for a Chinese gal named Maxine Chan.”

  The sheriff stiffened at the name, glanced swiftly at the men and then at the crowd. He jerked his head, indicating that they should follow him into his office. He asked a man in the crowd to take the three dead men across to the coroner’s and then Haines and Nash dragged Hess off his horse and bundled him into the law office. Petersen indicated a chair in a corner and they slammed Hess down into this while the sheriff closed the door. He turned to look at them.

  “You sure you got that name right? Maxine Chan?”

  “That’s the name he gave us,” Nash said, gesturing at Hess. “Said she’s Christian’s girl. Oriental.”

  Petersen looked thoughtful as he leaned his hips back against the desk and scratched at the stubble on his jutting jaw.

  “Well, it sure ain’t a name you’d call common ... ” He looked levelly at the two agents. “Gents, there’s a place called Madame Mustang’s over at Pistol Junction. I—er—have to look in there once in a while on my round of duties ... ” He winked solemnly. “If you get what I mean. Well, Madame Mustang’s is gettin’ pretty well-known and she sort of gets in gals from all over the world. There’s a couple of Chinese. And I’m tolerably sure one of ’em was called Maxine.”

  “Was this recent?” Haines asked.

  Petersen nodded. “Be about three weeks ago I seen that little lady last. Not sayin’ she’s the one you’re lookin’ for, but could be. A walkin’ doll.”

  “Sounds promisin’,” Nash allowed. “You any idea where this michauca brush grows? Guess it’d have to be somewhere tolerably close for Christian to use it. I hear it’s not much good once it dries out, so he must’ve had it fresh for the raid.”

  “Well, I ain’t no expert,” the lawman admitted. “I ain’t even sure I’d recognize michauca if I seen it. But I recollect hearin’ someone say there was a mountainside of it around Buckhorn Flats some place.”

  Nash nodded. “Well, thanks, Sheriff. I guess we’ll go through the formalities with Hess here, and the forms for the reward money, then we’ll get on our way.”

  “I’ll go,” Dakota Haines said, strolling towards the office door.

  “Hey, hold up!” Nash snapped. “Where you off to?”

  Haines paused at the door, looking soberly at Nash. “Madame Mustang’s. You can handle the paperwork and you’re better at tellin’ the Morans they got some money comin’ than me. I’ll have this cathouse in Pistol Junction all checked-out by the time you’ve got things fixed here.”

  Nash crossed the room swiftly to stand in front of Haines. “That’s what I’m kind of afraid of, Dakota. Don’t let it get out of hand, huh?”

  Haines merely looked at him and then went out the door. Nash frowned, wondering if he should try to stop the man. Then he wondered if anyone really could stop Dakota Haines once he got rolling. Still, he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t been left with the roughest chore of the two. He was no great shakes at paperwork.

  ~*~

  “There’ll be the best part of five thousand dollars, all told," Nash told the two stunned Moran women in their homely kitchen as he swirled the grounds in his coffee cup. “I’ve been in touch with Jim Hume by wire and he’ll get it through as quick as he can. Likely it’ll be about two weeks.”

  Mrs. Moran’s eyes welled with tears and her lower lip began to tremble as she twisted a ragged kerchief between her work-worn hands. Maggie Moran gave Nash a look so warm and openly admiring that he was embarrassed and moved uneasily on his chair. The girl turned to her mother, covered her hands with one of her own and patted her on the shoulder.

  “Oh, Ma, you can sleep easy now,” she said gently. “Your worries are over. There’ll be enough money to get the house finished proper and the kids will have decent clothes for the winter and you’ll be able to have a real doctor for this baby.” She turned glistening eyes towards the uncomfortable Nash “We’ll never forget this, Clay.”

  “It was as much Dakota’s doin’ as mine,” Nash pointed out. “Pop was our friend. Only right you should have the money.”

  “Clay Nash,” said Mrs. Moran with a catch in her throat, dabbing at her eyes. “You—you must find a place in heaven for this deed alone.” She blew her nose noisily. “But I don’t rest easy with the thought of you and Dakota risking your necks just to get reward money for us! That don’t seem right, Clay.”

  “It’s what we’re bein’ paid for, ma’am,” Nash said quietly, and stood up, turning his hat awkwardly in his hands. “I hope everythin’ works out fine. So long for now.”

  Mrs. Moran stood and took his right hand in both of hers, lifting to her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “This baby that’s growin’ in me ... if it’s a boy, he’ll be named Clayton Haines Moran. You tell Dakota that.”

  Nash smiled. “We’ll be mighty proud to be godfathers, ma’am.”

  “I’ll walk you to the front door, Clay,” Maggie said and put a hand in the crook of his arm as they left the kitchen.

  Mrs. Moran sat down slowly in her chair, shaking her head, still unable to believe that she now had the prospect of having more money than she had ever hoped to have in her life. Maggie stopped Nash at the front door.

  “Yo
u’re a fine man, Clay. If there’s anything I can ever do for you ... I mean, I’d do anything for you, to show how grateful I am. You only have to ask. You understand what I mean, Clay? Anything at all ... ”

  There was a pink tinge to her cheeks but this only added weight to the sincerity in her voice. Nash smiled slowly, squeezed her waist.

  “Thanks, Maggie. I know that’s true. But it ain’t necessary. And—look: I’m quite a bit older than you. I do a dangerous job. I could get my head blown off any time. So don’t—uh—don’t let yourself get too attracted, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, Clay, that’s exactly why I’m—offering myself to you! I know the risks of your job!”

  Nash put up a forefinger over her lips. “Just ease down. You’re kind of dazzled by things the way they’ve happened lately. Everythin’s been so fast, one thing pilin’ on top of another and Pop filled your head with those tall tales about me.”

  “They weren’t tall tales! They were the truth!”

  “Maybe some,” Nash conceded. He took her face between his hands, wishing he could find the right words. “Maggie, you’re a beautiful and warm gal. I’d be proud to have your love if I thought I deserved it. No, no, let me finish. You’ve been kinda caught on the hop, is all. If Dakota had come along first, you might well have been makin’ the same offer to him.”

  “I don’t know about Dakota,” the girl admitted honestly. “All I know is, Clay, I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  Nash moved uneasily. “Maggie ... ” He smiled fleetingly, making a helpless gesture. “You can’t do it, gal! I’ve done nothin’ to deserve it ... ”

  “That’s all right,” she broke in swiftly. “I don’t expect you to love me back. I know I’m not much more than a kid and you’ve probably got a woman somewhere ... ?”

  There was a questioning lift to her voice and he nodded slowly. “Down in a place called Iron Ridge, Texas. Her name’s Mary Summers.” It was a half-lie, but he hoped it might serve to discourage her.

  “Like I said, Clay, that’s all right. I don’t mind. But she’s a long way away and I’m here. So, if there’s anything I can do for you, you only have to ask.”

  Nash nodded, sighing in resignation. He patted her cheek. “Much obliged, Maggie. I feel right proud.”

  She smiled warmly as he pushed past hurriedly and walked back towards town at a brisk pace. When he got a little way down the street he let out a long sigh and ran his finger around the inside of his neckerchief. Grown women he could handle about as well as most men, but a girl like Maggie, more than a child, not quite a woman ... well, he hoped Dakota Haines would hurry up and contact him with some information about the Chinese ‘happy’ girl.

  “Aw, hell!” he muttered as he walked along. “Now there’s another female! Too many damn women in this case altogether!”

  And if Clay Nash had seen the woman Dakota Haines was up against, he might well have given up in despair.

  For Madame Mustang was as tough as nails, and as independent and unafraid of any man as the wild horse of her nickname.

  Pistol Junction was a rip-roaring town on the edge of the goldfields, which were showing signs of petering-out, but the area was still crowded with hopefuls and those who struck a bonanza wanted to celebrate in town and let everyone know they had been lucky. Those who sweated and slaved and broke their backs for little or no return, still wanted somewhere to go in town so they could forget their hard luck. At least for a time.

  Madame Mustang’s catered to both parties. The sign over the big sandstone and timber house promised ‘The Wildest Trip In The West’ and Madame Mustang saw to it personally that this promise was kept. If a man had money to pay for his drinks and her girls’ time, then she figured he ought to get full value for as long as his cash held out. The moment he turned out an empty pocket, he found himself on his way to the door, held between two of the toughest bouncers this side of ’Frisco, and then propelled out with a hefty boot planted squarely in the seat of his pants.

  Madame Mustang ran the town, for there was no law in Pistol Junction. The town came under the authority of Buck Petersen in Yuma but mostly he left it to its own devices. If there was a killing or a claim-jumping, then he rode out to investigate, but for the usual brawls or complaints of too much noise or drunkenness, he didn’t bother. He took a small percentage from Madame Mustang on occasion and knew she would see to it that there wasn’t too much mayhem in town.

  When Dakota Haines arrived, he drew a lot of curious stares. For he didn’t quite have the look of a range rider about him, not with that sawn-off shotgun dangling from its swivel clip, and he sure didn’t look like a miner or a ranny come to try his luck on the fields. He looked what he was: one tough hombre on the prowl, hunting someone. He could be a lawman, a bounty hunter, or just someone out for vengeance, but he had the cold, implacable look of the hunter and townspeople stepped aside to avoid his bleak gaze, as he swung along the boardwalks and started up the hill towards the sandstone house.

  There was a corral for customers’ horses, even stalls for those who would spend a few days—and nights—in the establishment. Men sat around talking and smoking, drinking on the porch with some of the girls dressed in their feather-trimmed robes. They all stared curiously as Haines swung up the steps and made for the door with the stained glass panels.

  Two big gun-hung men stepped out of the porch shadows and barred his way. One man, a redhead, lifted a freckled hand and spread it in the middle of Haines’ chest. His green eyes were cold.

  “Unsling that cannon before you go in, mister,” he ordered. “Madame don’t allow firearms inside. House rule.”

  “Well, it’s about to be broken,” Dakota told him, knocking the hand aside. “I don’t leave my gun with anyone.”

  “You do,” the redhead told him tightly. “Or you don’t go in. Fact, you could get carried off on a door to the undertaker’s.” Dakota looked at him coldly, his eyes narrowed, aware of the stares of the others on the porch, waiting for him to back down. Instead, his right hand blurred to the sawn-off, swung it on its swivel and notched back the hammer on the right-hand barrel, the gun coming up to menace the two guards.

  “Step aside,” Dakota said quietly. He heard one of the girls behind him gasp and there was hurried movement as the others cleared the porch in case there was gunplay.

  The redhead paled as he was nearest the shotgun and he stepped back and to one side, his hands lifting out away from his guns. But the other man had been using the redhead’s body as a screen and his gun was clearing leather as the redhead moved aside. Dakota saw the gun barrel snapping into line, and triggered. The porch awning shook with the thunderous roar of the muzzle blast and the guard’s body was lifted clear of the boards and flung back through the stained glass panel of the door. It hung there where the glass had been, broken and bleeding and someone screamed inside and there were yells and hoarse cries as men demanded to know what in hell was happening.

  Dakota swung the sawn-off to cover the redhead, hammer notching back on the second barrel, and the man dropped his hands away from his guns, shoved them high in the air. Haines unclipped the sawn-off and smashed the butt into the man’s face, putting him down. He took the guns and flung them into the horse trough, seeing two girls and a bleary-eyed miner leap up from behind its shelter and run wildly for the stables.

  Haines kicked in the remaining door, stepped inside with the shotgun ready. Other guards who had been running towards the front of the place halted when the barrels swung to cover them.

  At the head of the stairs stood a tall statuesque woman in a blue silk gown, her black hair neatly piled on top of her head in glistening loops. Her fingers flashed with diamonds and there was a heavy pendant around her smooth white neck. Haines figured she would be in her mid-thirties but it was hard to tell; her body was that of a woman ten years younger.

  “You Madame Mustang?” he asked.

  She stared at him coldly for a spell, then nodded.

  “I wan
t to talk to you. Private,” Haines told her.

  She continued to look at him in silence for a while and then nodded, swiveling her gaze towards her frozen guards.

  “Let him come up,” she said in a husky voice.

  Haines snorted. “You figure they could stop me?” He moved towards the stairs, gun still cocked and ready and no one made any move to prevent him going up towards the woman at the top. She merely glanced at him, turned and walked down a carpeted passage and into a room at the end.

  The room was strictly feminine and it immediately made Dakota Haines feel ill at ease. Afterwards, he figured it had been a deliberate maneuver on Madame Mustang’s part. He could see the corner of a huge brass bed in the room next door and knew that this was actually a suite of rooms, and not just a single one.

  She was already sitting on a brocaded armchair when he entered. He kicked the door closed behind him, and there was faint amusement in her eyes. She had known other tough men feel uneasy in these perfumed, lacy surroundings and she knew how to use that unease to her advantage.

  “You seem a very violent man, Mr. ... ?”

  “Call me Dakota,” he said roughly, planting a boot deliberately on a chair that matched the one where she sat, leaning a forearm across his bent knee, holding the sawn-off halfway between the woman and the door.

  “A careful man, too, I see,” she said, still mocking him. “That stained glass panel cost me three hundred dollars to bring in from Europe. I hope you intend to pay for it.”

  “Reckon not,” Haines told her curtly, wishing now he had braced her down in the bar parlor. “But could be I’ll kick out the other panel and maybe wreck a few other things if I don’t get the answers I want.”

  She arched her eyebrows, reached for a cheroot in a carved wooden box and held it up between her fingers obviously waiting for him to light it. Dakota didn’t move. He stared her down with cold eyes and, frowning slightly, she lifted a vesta from a silver box and fired up. She blew smoke in his direction and seemed a trifle more wary of him now.