Nash let out a yell as he dropped the rope of Cox’s horse and jumped the big bay gelding up onto the law office porch, startling Burns. The sheriff tried to dodge but Nash’s boot kicked free of the stirrup and caught him a solid blow on the shoulder. He spun back into the porch railing, arched over, and landed in a heap in the street.
Clay Nash quit saddle with a leap, leaving the bay on the porch as he landed on the rail, balanced briefly and then launched himself headlong as Burns started to get to his feet. He threw his arms wide and wrapped them around the lawman, butting him with the top of his head. They crashed over backwards into the street, dust rising as the crowds gathered and began yelling. They rolled over and over, both men striking with fists and knees and boots. Both men scrambled to get a foothold so they could get on their feet but each grabbed and sledged at the other so that neither managed to make it more than halfway erect before both fell down again, grappling and fighting.
Finally, Nash lifted his feet as Burns hurled himself bodily at him. His boots caught the sheriff in the chest and Nash straightened his legs like a spring, hurling the lawman back ten feet. While Burns fought for balance and to keep himself from going all the way down, Nash lurched upright and ran forward, fists clenched down at his sides. He knew he had to make this look good: if he gave up too soon, Burns would be suspicious, for he knew Nash’s reputation as one mighty tough rooster and he would be expecting a good run for his money. He might win, but he wouldn’t be expecting the victory without some hurt.
Burns was no slouch himself when it came to a rough and tumble. He had had to learn to fight when he had come West and he had had a good teacher. No one had wasted time showing him the finer points of street fighting. There were no Marquis of Queensberry rules on the frontier. Caught up in a sheepherder-cattleman war in Montana, and working for a sheepman, Brad Burns had had to learn how to handle himself fast. He had been a good pupil and now he met Nash’s charge with confidence backed by savagery and the long months of hatred he had nurtured for the Wells Fargo man since being wrongfully imprisoned ...
Nash’s first blows were blocked by iron-hard forearms and then Burns ducked, turned a shoulder and drove forward and up with his legs. His shoulder caught Nash just above the belt buckle and the upward driving force lifted his boots clear off the ground, carrying him backwards. By the time he dropped to the street again and fought for balance, Burns had straightened and was hammering a barrage of blows into his body that kept driving him backwards, just short of the point of balance and solid footing. The dirt was loose under his boots so he could not dig in his heels for purchase. Burns abruptly shifted his attack to Nash’s face and the Wells Fargo man’s head snapped back and he tasted blood as his lips mashed against his teeth. His eyes watered and blood spurted from his nostrils. Knuckles opened a split on his cheek and ground into his left eye.
Half-blinded, gasping for breath, dodging frantically and getting his guard up a shade late, Nash took two more blows that landed either side of his head and then he went stumbling and staggering to one side. Burns went after him and Nash dropped abruptly to one knee. Burns couldn’t stop his forward rush and the Wells Fargo man hooked him in the belly, well below the belt, bringing the lawman up short. Gagging, Burns’ legs buckled and Nash hooked him again as he lunged to his feet. The sheriff tried to turn and meet the attack but he was still off-balance and half-doubled over when a barrage of solid, flesh-bruising blows rocked his head and upper body. He started to go down, instinctively put out a hand to keep from going all the way down, and Nash swept his left leg around, kicking the support away. Burns thudded onto his side in the dust and Nash leapt in, drove his boot into the man’s belly and saw the sheriff jack-knife, knees coming up under his chin as he gagged for breath. The Wells Fargo man instinctively stepped in to kick Burns again when he abruptly realized that he had Burns now, had him cold. He could finish the man with a boot to the head or face and he would have won the fight.
But that wasn’t what he wanted. The crowd was yelling, some for Burns, some for the big stranger, caught up in the wild excitement of bloodletting, not bothering about the whys and wherefores, cheering for more blood and action. Nash knew if he hesitated, they would know something was wrong, that he didn’t want to finish it and win ... which he didn’t, but the trouble was how to do it and make it look natural.
All this took only a split-second to flash through his brain and his boot was actually drawn back for the finishing kick so he had no choice but to continue the movement. At the last instant, he shifted his weight so that his boot merely skidded across the top of Burns’ head, disturbing the yellow, sweat-matted hair, and then flew on into space. He let the leg continue its rise and he yelled, hopping wildly on his other foot as the upward swing threw him off-balance. He could have likely remained upright, but it was touch and go at best and he didn’t really try. He let himself go down hard, flat on his back, his head rapping the street.
To the crowd it looked just the way he wanted it to look. He had swung a savage kick, missed, and lost balance.
Now he lay there, dazed and winded, shaking his head, seeing Burns taking advantage of the break and clambering slowly to his feet, urged on by the faction which was rooting for him. The sheriff climbed up slowly, straightening, dragging down an obviously painful breath, and his eyes slitted, bright with hatred that drowned his pain, as he stumbled forward and, just as Nash started to sit up, kicked him in the jaw. Nash crashed over onto his back again, head ringing, jaw feeling as if he had been kicked by a horse. He rolled away as Burns came in after him, managing to get as far as his knees, knowing he had pulled it off only too well: he didn’t have a chance now against Burns.
The sheriff had his right fist bunched down at his side, cocked and ready, and Nash made no move to get out of the way as it suddenly whizzed towards his swelling jaw. He simply turned his head a little so that some of the force was spent when the knuckles skidded along his jawbone and he went down again with a thud, bright lights bursting behind his eyes, gravel biting into his cheek.
Burns stood over Nash, panting, bloody, sweating, his legs rubbery, glad Nash wasn’t making any effort to get up. He didn’t think he could have put the big Wells Fargo man down again: it had taken all his effort so far and he knew if that kick hadn’t missed his head by a whisker, he would’ve been out to it long since. Townsmen were clapping him on the back and he staggered unsteadily. They grabbed him and supported him and he wiped blood from his mouth and turned to them.
“Gimme a hand to get that hombre into the cells,” he panted.
There were plenty of eager helpers and Nash, still half-conscious, was lifted bodily and carried towards the law offices. Burns stumbled along behind and opened the door, someone taking the lantern off the porch and carrying it inside to light the way. Nash was dumped unceremoniously onto a bunk and Burns locked the barred door, walked back to the front office and dropped into his desk chair.
“Thanks, fellers,” he told the townsmen. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Reckon you know him, eh, Sheriff?” a man asked. “Way he jumped that hoss at you and both of you started sluggin’ away like that.”
Burns nodded slowly, dabbing at his bleeding lips. “I know him ...” He heaved to his feet suddenly. “And I’d better take a look at that dead man he’s got roped across that other horse outside.”
~*~
Nash came round slowly and painfully on the bunk. He sat up gingerly, holding his swollen jaw gently. He swung his feet down to the stone floor and leaned his elbows on his knees, head between his hands. After a time, he got out his bandanna and mopped up some of the blood from his face. His gun was gone, of course, so were his clasp knife and cartridge belt. In fact his pockets had been emptied except for the kerchief and tobacco sack. He sat on the edge of the bunk and laboriously twisted up a cigarette. But there were no vestas and he stumbled to the barred door, leaned against it, and yelled.
“Hey, Sheriff! You got a light?”
He waited, but there was no answer. He called again.
Still no answer. The heavy door leading from the cellblock to the front office was closed and he glanced at its base now, swore when he couldn’t see any line of light showing underneath. It looked like Brad Burns had gone home for the night and left his prisoner alone in the cells.
~*~
Ellen Bray frowned as she wrung out the clean cloth she had used to mop up the signs of battle from Burns’ battered face. He sat across the kitchen table from her, looking quite pleased with himself despite his wounds and bruises.
“But can you legally do that, Brad?” the girl asked.
Burns smiled slowly, wincing a little as he moved his split lips. “I reckon I can ... A man comes ridin’ into town, toting a dead man roped across a saddle. The moment he sees me, he jumps his horse into me and starts a fight. I’m a lawman now, Ellen. I won that fight, so I’ve got every right to throw him in the cells.”
“Yes, but you know who he is! You told me this Clay Nash works undercover for Wells Fargo. Probably that dead man, an outlaw named Cox you said, was part of an assignment he was working on. He may want to stay undercover now, which is probably why he started a fight with you, so you wouldn’t give away his true identity.”
Burns frowned, mulling this over. “We-ell, I guess that's possible. But makes no difference. Far as the town’s concerned, he’s just a proddy stranger who rode in and bit off more’n he could chew when he tackled me.” He laughed suddenly, shortly. “You’ve got no idea, Ellen, what satisfaction it gives me to have Nash locked away in a cell! After all he put me through months ago when he got me thrown into Laramie prison! It’s poetic justice if I ever saw it!”
She stared at him soberly and the smile slowly faded from his face.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you see the irony of it?”
“Of course I do, Brad,” she told him with a slight edge to her voice. “I know you hate this man Nash, and perhaps your reasons warrant such hatred, but I think you’ve acted hastily here. You don’t know what work you might be undoing or interfering with by locking Nash up and just leaving him in the cell overnight!”
He looked at her with hard eyes. “You know somethin’, Ellen? I don’t give a damn! I hope I am lousin’ up Nash’s work! I hope I’m undoin’ everything, fouling up the assignment he’s working on! I hope I make his life pure hell! And it won’t just be for overnight! No fear! I’m charging him with assault and I’m keeping him there till the circuit judge arrives for a hearin’!” He shook his head slowly, lips drawn into a tight line. “I don’t aim to let him out of my hands now I’ve got him cold-decked, Ellen. It’s too good a chance to pass up. I was mistaken for someone else and held for weeks, so why shouldn’t Nash go through some of the same?”
She stood swiftly, her face tight with anger. “I didn’t realize you were so petty, Brad!”
“Petty?” he echoed. “Good God, gal, if I could only make you realize what Nash put me through ...!”
“But you know this is wrong!” she cut in, eyes blazing. “You know he’s probably on undercover work for Wells Fargo and you’re deliberately interfering! No matter how well you convince others that it’s all a mistake or you’re doing the legal thing by charging Nash, you know it’s wrong!” She paused and gave him one final cold look before stalking out of the room. “And so do I!”
Burns glared after her, breathing fast, but there was a stubborn look on his battered face.
~*~
The man who brought Nash breakfast worked at the diner opposite and told the Wells Fargo man that Sheriff Brad Burns had merely told him to bring in the food, unlocked the office and then gone across to the diner for his own breakfast.
Nash took the food through the bars and said, “Well, you tell the sheriff I want to see him, pronto.”
“I’ll tell him but I get the impression he ain’t in any great hurry to see you, mister.” He laughed suddenly. “Why should he, anyways? You ain’t goin’ any place, are you?”
Nash swore. “Can you leave me some vestas? I’m dying for a smoke.”
“Well, dunno as how Burns would like that. You got anythin’ to trade?”
“No, damn it, I don’t!” Nash snapped, irritably. “Burns cleaned my pockets out last night.”
“We-ell, I guess I better not leave any then. Just to be on the safe side!” The man laughed again, started to leave, but paused and turned back towards the cell. “Say, who are you anyways, mister? Burns knows you, I reckon, but he ain’t sayin’.”
Nash stared at the man levelly. “Name’s Matt Dundee. Tell Burns that. Matt Dundee. He’s likely got a Wanted dodger on me so ain’t much use me givin’ you a false name.”
The diner man pursed his lips and whistled softly. “On the dodge, huh? Sure, I’ll tell the sheriff, Dundee. So long. Too bad about your smoke!”
Nash scowled after the man as he left and closed the cellblock door after him. Then he wolfed down the breakfast, indifferent food that merely filled his belly. He craved a smoke! He figured Burns was making him sweat a little, making up for the wrong he had done him up in Montana all those months ago. Okay, once he figured that, it became more bearable. He could wait Burns out.
But Burns didn’t show until after noon and when he did come into the cellblock passage and stop just outside the barred door, he was smoking and blowing the tobacco smoke deliberately into Nash’s cell. The Wells Fargo man ground his teeth as he got up off the bunk and walked to the door.
“About goddamn time, Burns!” he snapped.
The sheriff smiled crookedly, blew more smoke in Nash's face. “Matt Dundee, huh? Yeah, I got a Wanted dodger on you. Came through in the morning’s mail. Good likeness of you, mister. See you’re wanted for murder, robbery and bustin’ out of prison. And you can add assault on a law officer to that, for what it’s worth.”
“Cut the clowning, Burns, and let me out of here,” Nash growled. “You’ve had your fun. Now let me loose. I’ve got a job to do.”
Burns arched his eyebrows. “But you ain’t goin’ anywhere, Dundee! You’re a desperado, a badly wanted man, and I reckon the Rangers’ll be happy I’ve got you tucked away here. So don’t go givin’ me any hogwash about ‘jobs’ to be done. You ain’t goin’ any place for a long time.”
The sheriff turned and started to walk away and Nash shook the bars savagely, a cold knot in his belly now.
“Wait up, Burns!” he called and the lawman slowed his pace, turned and looked at Nash with hard eyes.
“Yeah, Dundee?”
“Cut it out! You know who I am!”
“Sure. Matt Dundee. You told the diner man and he’ll swear to it. And I got a Wanted dodger on you with your picture on it. So I know who you are all right, Dundee.”
“Goddamn it, Burns! You know I’m Clay Nash! Dundee’s only my cover! I’m on a job for Wells Fargo!”
Burns dropped his cigarette stub on the floor and ground it out under his boot. He walked back to stand just outside Nash’s cell door, his eyes hard and bleak, face like granite.
“I remember a time, not too long back, standin’ by a river up in Montana while you held a gun on me, Nash. And I kept tryin’ to tell you that my name was Brad Burns not Josh someone or other who you reckoned had robbed some stages and killed a lot of folk. You didn’t believe me!”
“Judas priest, that was different!” Nash said, getting a touch desperate now. “I didn’t know you and you fitted Josh’s description exactly and, what’s more, you were right where I expected to find him! That was a legitimate mistake and I tried to make it up to you. But this is different! You damn well know I’m Clay Nash and you’re gonna blow the whole deal unless you cooperate!”
Burns continued to glare at him coldly. “Yeah. It’s different, right enough. You’re the one tryin’ to convince folk you ain’t a wanted outlaw now. Well, you go ahead and do it! Call in anyone you like, or stand at that there window and yell it out so’s the whole town can hear! Go on! Start yellin’ that you’re really Clay Nash, Wells Fargo undercover man, and not Matt Dundee, escaped convict and wanted outlaw!”
Nash’s eyes narrowed and his voice was very calm when he spoke. “You know I can’t do that. I need the Dundee identity for my cover! Come on, Burns. Don’t blow this deal on me now! That dead man I toted in was Chuka Cox ...”
“I know. Got a Wanted dodger on him, too.”
“But maybe you didn’t know he was an expert with dynamite and we suspect he was workin’ with this gang of train robbers I’m after, led by the Forrester brothers ... What’s wrong?”
Burns had stiffened at mention of the Forresters. “Eh? Nothin’ much. But I killed Lem Forrester couple of nights back and wounded Zack. They gunned down Luke Bray, which is how come I got to be totin’ his star.”
“All right,” Nash said slowly. “That explains a lot. Thing is, Cox tried to bushwhack me but I nailed him. If he was workin’ with the Forresters, they’re short an explosives’ man now. And Matt Dundee was one of the best men with dynamite ever to walk the West.”
“He dead, too?”
“Yeah, he’s dead. I’m tryin’ to use his identity to get into the gang. I had to jump you last night so you wouldn’t holler out my real name.”
“Well, rest easy,” Burns said and, for a moment, hope rose in Nash, but sank just as swiftly a second later when the sheriff added: “I won’t be mentionin’ your real name. Far as I’m concerned, or the rest of this town, you’re Matt Dundee. And you can set and wait till the circuit judge gets here!”
Burns gave Nash one final glare and heeled and strode towards the door leading to the front office. Nash shook the barred door.
“Damn you, Burns! Don’t do this to me!”
But Brad Burns continued on through the doorway and slammed the door hard after him. Nash heard the bolt clash home on the far side. He smashed the heel of his hand hard against the cell bars in frustration and walked stiffly back to the bunk, dropping onto it with a thud. Seemed like Brad Burns was going to take full revenge and there wasn’t one damned thing Nash could do about it!