Sheriff Race Hollander stopped dead when he came through the door of the law office and saw Red Morgan sitting in the chair at his desk.
The deputy’s left arm was in a sling, the hand heavily bandaged. There was a thick pad of bandages over his nose, too, and this was held in place by strips of tape that distorted his bruised features. The man had two black eyes and his lids were purple and swollen. His eyes seemed to glitter way back in dark tunnels.
“What in Sam Hill happened to you?” the sheriff demanded as he came in and closed the door behind him.
“Nash.”
Hollander stiffened. “Nash?”
“Back in town.”
The sheriff swore. “What brings him back?”
“Lex Skinner tried to nail him. Nash got him. Before he died, he told how he knew you, me and Callan was up on the Red River.”
Hollander cursed loud and long this time. “That’d be enough for a hombre like Nash to start puttin’ a few things together.”
“He can’t prove anything.”
“Goddamn it, he doesn’t have to at this stage! He knows now we knew Callan and Callan killed Parrish. He’ll figure it had to be a set-up, then he’ll start movin’ in.”
“I’ll fix him.”
“Like hell! He was too smart for you. He done that to you so that if anythin’ happens to him now, folk are gonna start lookin’ straight at you! He was too damn smart, Red!”
Morgan’s mouth tightened. “He ain’t gettin’ away with this!”
“Forget gettin’ square for now. We got more at stake. But we gotta stop Nash, just the same.”
“If I shotgunned him from an alley, they’d think it was someone from his past squarin’ away with him.”
Hollander waved it aside, thinking. “Too risky. We’ll take care of him another way.”
“How?”
“I dunno yet, but gimme time.”
He spun towards the door as there was a knock and it opened and Lucy Parrish came hurrying in, pale and worried-looking.
“What in hell’re you doin’ here?” Hollander exclaimed. “Thought I told you to stay clear of this office!”
“I’m a citizen of Virginia City,” Lucy told him coolly. “I’ve every right to come to the law office. No one will think it strange, Race.”
Hollander dragged down a deep breath and let it out slowly, nodding. “No, guess not. But what’s up? You look like you got some sort of bug in your ear.”
Lucy gripped her small purse tightly. “Yes. I—I’ve had a shock. Clay Nash came back ...”
“We know about that,” Hollander growled.
“He’s heard that Mitch was selling-out Wells Fargo and he’s been questioning me about it.”
Hollander frowned. “What’d he want to know?”
“About our bank account and where the money came from for Mitch to gamble with. And—and how I bought the furniture.”
“What’d you tell him?” the sheriff demanded.
“I—I said I drew the money out of the bank account.” She stepped close. “It’ll be all right, Race. He believed me. I know he did.”
Hollander looked dubious. “Nash is smart. He might check the bank.”
“They won’t tell him anything.”
The sheriff stared at her blankly. “Not him. But they might Wells Fargo.”
Lucy paled. “How—how’d you know he was still working for them?”
“It just come to me. Had to be a set-up, him throwin’ in his badge that way. I guess he admitted to you he’s still with ’em?”
“Yes, and he—he did say Hume was checking up on Mitch. That could mean the bank, I suppose.”
“Stupid damn gal!” breathed Morgan in a low voice.
“I couldn’t help it! Some old enemy told him about Mitch!” She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin defiantly. “Anyway, Race Hollander, you know fine it’ll be in your interests to protect me and see that nothing happens to me. That was our deal and I still have that paper incriminating you and Morgan that Mitch had written out. Remember that.”
Morgan was on his feet now but Hollander signed to him to take it easy.
“We’ll remember. We know you have us over a barrel, Lucy. If you didn’t, I’d never have given you that money for your lousy furniture. And you did right comin’ to see me.” He clapped an arm about her shoulders but she fought off swiftly. He laughed. “Suit yourself. But you go on back home and stay there. Stay there, you hear? We’ll take care of Nash. And Hume, if we have to, or the whole of Wells Fargo. You just sit tight.”
Lucy hesitated. “Does Nash have to—die?”
“Leave it to us,” Hollander said again and ushered her out swiftly into the night. He leaned back against the door and Morgan looked at him expectantly.
“Well?”
“Red, want you to take a short walk. Not yet. In an hour or so.”
Morgan frowned. “Where?”
“To Lucy Parrish’s.”
Nash and Hume met again at Indian Head below the mines that were still clattering and thudding in their endless workings of the rich ore from the mountain of silver.
The two men took as many precautions as earlier for they hadn’t yet made it generally known that Nash was still, in reality, working for Wells Fargo. There just might be something further to gain by folk thinking that he had quit the powerful transport company.
“There was two, three hundred bucks’ worth of furniture, Jim,” Nash reported, “and she claims she took the money out of the bank account.”
“She’s lying, Clay.”
Nash stiffened. “You sure?”
“Damn right. Once I put a little pressure on the bank manager and got him to cooperate, he went all the way. He not only got me a copy of Mitch Parrish’s home account, which had around four hundred bucks in it, but he got me the deposit and withdrawal slips as well. There hasn’t been a deposit made for six weeks, but there’d been two withdrawals. None since before Mitch was killed.”
Nash said, “Then where did she get the money?”
“Maybe from another account,” Hume said quietly.
Nash snapped his head around. “You found a second one? Hidden one?”
“Yeah. Your hunch about the gal’s maiden name was right. Under Jarvis—no ‘e’ or ‘double-s’—there was a second operating account.” He paused, then added quietly, “With over five thousand dollars in it.”
Clay Nash whistled softly. “So there’s no doubt. Mitch sold out.”
“Looks that way, Clay. Last deposit was right after the Cherokee Flats stage robbery a month back. I didn’t ask for any withdrawal slips because the manager had said it seemed that Mitch was using this account as a nest-egg and hadn’t been drawing on it. But if Lucy found out about it, she might have drawn some out.”
Nash scratched at his stubbled chin. “Maybe not, Jim. I mean, Lucy only furnished one room, the parlor. She aims to do the rest of the house, she says, but she’d have done it all at once, I reckon, if there was five thousand available.”
“She’d know it would look strange, Clay. She’s intelligent. She’d do it a little at a time.”
“Yeah—could be. I’ve a hunch, though, the money she used came from somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I dunno, Jim. I’ve got some loose ideas in the back of my head on this, but they haven’t come together yet.”
“I’ll have the manager check at the bank and see if the Jarvis account has been touched during the last week.” He looked at Nash, barely making him out in the darkness. “If she’s learnt about it, Clay, it means she’s holding out on us. She must’ve found some papers to lead her to the account.”
“Unless she’s known about it all along and Mitch simply wouldn’t let her touch it. And wouldn’t touch it himself. I guess it was his ranch money.”
“It was Wells Fargo money,” Hume said curtly. “We haven’t any proof yet, but I haven’t a doubt in my mind that Skinner told you the gospel truth about Parrish, Claybourne and Shaw. They helped rig a whole slew of stage robberies and got paid off for it from the proceeds.”
Nash nodded slowly.
“I guess it looks bad, all right. I’m pretty sure that Hollander and Morgan are in it, too. I’ve goosed ’em a mite; be interestin’ to see what comes of it.”
“You watch your back. You took too big a chance slugging Morgan like that.”
“Madder they get, more chance of ’em makin’ a slip.”
“As long as you’re alive to know about it.”
Nash grunted and started to speak but choked off the words, holding up a hand as Hume began to say something too.
“Listen, Jim.”
They both listened intently and at first all they could hear was the clattering thud and thump of the mines and the distant night sounds coming from the saloons in town. Then, penetrating both these compounds of noise, came the clanging of a bell. They realized then, that a lot of the shouting and muted yelling they had naturally thought was coming from the saloons was emanating from the streets.
Both men looked towards town, turning slowly in their saddles, hands on gun butts, their instincts warning them that there was danger or trouble coming.
“Fire!”
Hume saw it first, a glow that outlined the roofs and shapes of some of the town’s buildings on one side. Even as Nash looked towards the area Hume indicated, the flames leapt upwards with a new burst of energy and he swore savagely.
“That’s on the hill where Lucy Parrish lives!”
He was already spurring his mount away and Hume swore and put his mount after Nash. They galloped recklessly through the narrow, dangerous draw with its slippery pebbles underfoot. Nash’s animal slipped and skidded but he hauled it upright by the reins, throwing back his weight and, as soon as it was on an even keel again, slammed home the spurs and yelled.
The horse streaked out of the draw and along the dusty trail back towards town. Only once did Nash glance back and he caught a glimpse of Hume a hundred yards behind. He lashed at the sweating mount with rein ends as he thundered into the streets of Virginia City. Folk were coming out of their homes in their night attire. Men were charging wildly down the street, half-dressed, boots pulled on, nightshirt tails flying, as the members of the Volunteer Fire Brigade ran towards the fire.
By the time Nash reached the foot of the hill, the street was jammed with people and he loosed a couple of shots into the air, scattering them wildly, lunging his mount up the slope. His heart choked in his throat as he saw that it was Lucy’s house that was ablaze. Flames leapt high in the air. The old, weathered timber burned like paper. There was a roaring sound as it was consumed, the violent updraughts flinging blazing debris high.
Already the old, man-hauled fire truck had four men ranged either side, working the long pump handles while two other men played a feeble stream of water against the wall of flames.
“Forget the damn fire!” bawled the blacksmith who was also the fire chief. “The house has gone. Play that water on the places either side or we’ll have the whole goddamn town go up in smoke.”
Men ran about, yelling, slopping buckets of water, running out the canvas hose lengths, jostling, beating at the edges of the fire with wet sacks. A bucket brigade was forming to throw water over the houses either side. Sparks swirled in burning gusts and set clothes smoldering, flesh stinging. Smoke roiled in choking clouds, blinding, obscuring. Timber cracked and exploded. Glassware shattered. Oil reservoirs in lamps exploded and added fuel to the fire. Shingles spun high like arcing skyrockets on a Fourth of July.
If anyone was in that house, it was their funeral pyre, Nash thought, running through the din and bustle of the fire fighters, reaching for the blacksmith’s burly, sweating arm.
The man rounded angrily. “Get the hell outa here! If you ain’t in the brigade, I don’t want to know you! Vamoose!”
“The woman!” Nash bawled in his ear as the man turned away. “Did you get her out?”
The blacksmith turned back, somberly. “Ain’t seen no one, mister. Place was like a torch before we was called. Went up like paper.”
Nash cursed and lunged around the blacksmith who yelled and grabbed at him, missing him by inches.
“Clay, don’t be a fool!” yelled Jim Hume as he ran up.
But it was too late. Nash was already snatching a soaking wet potato sack from a startled volunteer and racing towards the inferno. A wall of heat hurled him back as if he had been hit a solid blow by a passing locomotive. He got the bag up in front of his face. The heat burned his hands at the edges. Steam began to rise instantly from the bag as the tremendous heat sucked the moisture from it. Nash swore, staggered back, dodged the hands that reached for him and snatched a bucket from a man in the line. He tipped the water over himself, drenching his clothes. He grabbed another soaking bag from yet another man nearby and ran around to the side of the house.
It was just as intense here and the flames were violent, living things, monsters, leaping and roaring out of the heart of the house. A heavy, thick beam, blazing from end to end, thundered down only a foot in front of him, showering him with sparks. He leapt back, stumbled, fell. A wall, ablaze from top to bottom, bulged outwards towards him, crashed down.
Nash scrabbled away wildly on hands and knees, hurling himself bodily, hitting hard, rolling. He was deafened by the sound of the crashing wall. Timber shattered and more flames erupted skywards. His clothes were steaming and smoldering. Choking, eyes streaming, lungs raw, he staggered around to the rear and threw an arm across his face, his heart sinking. It was impossible to enter. If anything, the fire was worse here than at the front.
Clay Nash stumbled back, didn’t resist now when rough hands hauled him away. He was coughing, body wracked with spasms, his chest seeming to tear apart with each convulsion. When his head cleared and he got his senses back fully, he found himself propped against a corner of a building across the street from all the activity around Lucy Parrish’s house. Or what remained of it. It was still blazing, but there wasn’t even a complete shell standing now; there was a pile of burning lumber, a couple of thin charred uprights still with flames licking at them, and muddy water everywhere.
Jim Hume helped him slowly to his feet.
“Lucy?” Nash was so shocked that he could barely speak. The word came out as a guttural growl and he tried to clear his throat. It hurt like hell and he grabbed it gently with his right hand, seeing the burns on the back of it. “She—all right?”
Hume shook his head. “No one knows, Clay. No one’s seen her about since the fire. Neighbor thought she went out earlier in the evening but doesn’t know if she came back or not. They’re checking through the town now.”
Nash drank some water a blistered, grimy volunteer handed him and felt better. Much of the crowd had gone now; only the morbid ones stayed, hoping to catch a glimpse of a charred body perhaps, wanting to take in every detail for later relaying through the gossip lines of Virginia City. The firemen were doing little more now than keeping the last of the fire contained within the confines of the pile of red and blackened timbers.
He saw the big form of Sheriff Race Hollander coming around from the rear, thumbing back his hat. The man was covered in grime and blisters and one sleeve was smoldering. He slapped at it as he came across to where Hume and Nash stood, raking them with a cold gaze.
“You two friends again?” he asked, probing.
Neither man answered him and the lawman shrugged.
“Can’t find the gal. Come mornin’ we’ll start siftin’ through the ashes.”
“How’d it start?” Nash asked tightly.
“Deliberately lit, I’d say,” Hollander replied in a matter of fact tone. “Neighbors heard a dull thud and next moment the place was engulfed in flames. Sounds like someone set off a bottle of coal oil. We’ll know when we go through the debris.” He looked hard at Nash. “We’re kinda expectin’ to find Mrs. Parrish in there—or what’s left of her.”
“They haven’t finished checking down town yet, have they?” asked Hume.
Hollander smiled faintly. “It’s just somethin’ that’s got to be done. We know there’s very little chance of findin’ her down there. The whole damn population turned out for the fire. She’d have been here seein’ as it was her house.”
Nash knew the man was right. There was little chance of finding Lucy Parrish alive now.
“Where’s Morgan?” he asked suddenly.
Hollander bored his hard gaze into Nash’s face. “Checkin’ through the town. He ain’t good for a lot else since you busted his nose and hand.”
Nash let that go.
“You ain’t thinkin’ of quittin’ town again, I guess?”
Nash was surprised by the question, shook his head. “Why?”
“Might need to talk to you again.”
“Only a few days ago, you didn’t want me around.”
Hollander shrugged. “Just stay in town a spell.”
He turned and moved back towards the burned-out house and, frowning, Nash allowed Jim Hume to lead him away down the hill towards the town.
“What in hell’s he up to?” Nash growled.
“Putting on a good front, I’d say.”
“Looks as if Lucy found somethin’ mighty important amongst Mitch’s papers, Jim.”
Hume snapped his head around. “You think they’ll find her body in the ashes, too?”
“Stands to reason. My guess is she found somethin’ in Mitch’s desk and, instead of bringin’ it to us, tried blackmail. That’s where the money for the furniture came from. Maybe I spooked her when I came back, sayin’ I’d learned Mitch was on the take. I’d say she ran to whoever it was she was blackmailin’ and he figured not to take any chances on her talkin’ and burned the place down around her ears.”
“Anyone in mind?”
Nash stopped on the walk outside his hotel. “Same one as you.”
“Two,” Hume corrected.
Nash nodded slowly. “Yeah. Well, I’m beat, Jim. I’m turnin’ in.”
“’Night, Clay. Watch it now.”
Nash nodded and walked wearily into his hotel.
Hume stood there for a minute, glanced back up the hill to the pile of embers that were still discernible and then continued on down the street. His quarters were above the Wells Fargo offices.
Clay Nash awoke with the sun beating against the cheap tarpaper shade over his window, and he knew it was well after eight. He got out of bed slowly, a little stiffly, feeling the bite of some of the burns and blisters on his hands and neck and face.
He looked at himself in the mirror, examined a couple of small burns he could see and then shaved. He was feeling a mite more alive by the time he was dressed and, just as he buckled on his gunbelt there was a knock on the door.
Nash went to answer it with his hand on the butt of the Colt.
“Yeah?” he called through the woodwork, standing to one side.
“Sheriff. Open up.”
Nash sighed and unlocked the door, looking out into the passage at Hollander. Then the heavy double barrels of Morgan’s Greener slammed him across the side of the head and sent him reeling back into the room. He instinctively tried to drag his gun free of leather and this time the shotgun barrels smashed across his wrist. The Colt fell to the floor and Nash slipped to one knee, dazed, shaking his head, tasting blood.
He looked up at the big deputy standing over him, grinning crookedly, mouth twisted beneath the taped pad across his broken nose. Morgan hit him again and laid him out on the floor. When Nash’s head ceased swimming and he could focus again, he saw Hollander sitting on the bed, casually covering him with his six-gun. Morgan was prowling around the room, opening and closing drawers, ripping open Nash’s warbag.
“What the hell?” Nash demanded thickly, starting to get up. But he froze when Hollander jerked the gun barrel at him.
“Stay there.”
Nash watched Morgan tip out the contents of the warbag and go through them, poking them around with the barrels of the Greener. He grunted and stooped, picking something up and walking back to where the sheriff sat on the edge of the bed.
“This ought to do,” he said, watching Nash bleakly.
Nash turned his puzzled gaze from the big deputy to the object Morgan handed Hollander. It was his bone handled clasp knife. The sheriff nodded at Morgan and stood up, towering over Nash who still sat on the floor.
“I’m arrestin’ you for the murder of Lucy Parrish and burnin’ down her house in an attempt to hide the crime, Nash. Get up.”
Nash was stunned and didn’t move. Hollander suddenly kicked him savagely in the ribs. Nash gagged and doubled over, clutching at his side. He rolled to elbows and knees and slowly started upright. Hollander kicked him in the middle of the back, sending him sprawling face first across the bed. He clawed at the covers, pulling the sheet into a ball as he struggled to get his rubbery legs under him.
They let him make it all the way this time and he swayed there, staring at the lawmen. Both had crooked, triumphant grins on their faces.
“You’re loco!” he said hoarsely.
Hollander held up the clasp knife.
“Evidence.”
“Of what?” Nash demanded.
“That you started the fire. See you’ve thoughtfully got the silver plate engraved—‘C.N.—Wells Fargo’. No doubt that it’s your knife.”
“And it’s been restin’ in my warbag until a few minutes ago.”
Hollander grinned and shook his head slowly. Morgan remained silent and deadpan.
“No, you’re wrong, Nash. This knife was found at the scene of the fire, near a broken coal-oil bottle, with a charred cork still on the end of the blade. You’d obviously used it to pry out the cork from the bottle neck—they get a mite tough at times, we all know that—you set down the knife while you started the fire and forgot to pick it up when the bottle of oil went up a mite faster than you reckoned on.”
“You’re loco. That’ll never stick. The knife’s not even charred.”
Hollander’s teeth bared as the lips pulled back around them. “It will be, don’t worry. It will be. The bone’ll all be burned and the blade’ll be blackened, and there’ll be just enough charred cork on the tip of the blade to tell what it was.”
Nash looked from one man to the other. “A frame. But it won’t wash. I was with Jim Hume when the fire broke out. Near the mines. A couple of miles away.”
“We’ve only got your word for that.”
“And Hume’s.”
“Anyone else see you?”
Nash’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t reply. Hollander laughed. “A smart lawyer can soon tear that alibi to pieces. No. You fit this nice, Nash.”
The Wells Fargo man was frowning deeply now. He couldn’t figure why Hollander and Morgan were going to all this trouble of framing him for the fire. It would have been easier to kill him from ambush, though Morgan would sure be suspect after what he had done to the man in the street ...
“You said somethin’ about Lucy Parrish’s murder?” he asked suddenly.
“Yeah. Found what was left of her under a bureau or something. Amazin’ how some things don’t get burned-up even in a blaze like that. Not a lot left of her, but enough to show she’d been strangled. Raped, too, mebbe. Anyways, you were seen goin’ there earlier and she was seen hurryin’ out soon after you left, lookin’ pretty frightened. I’m here to tell you she came to see me and Morgan and complained you were trying to force your attentions on her and she was scared. But we didn’t take her seriously enough. Bad mistake on our part, of course, and hard luck for her. You went back there or were waitin’ when she got home, attacked her and then burned down the house to try to cover-up.”
“And why did I stick around town like a fool after doin’ all those things?”
“You figured you’d get away with it, that’s all.” He grabbed Nash and spun him abruptly, face-first into the wall. Morgan’s Greener jammed against Nash’s spine painfully. Then he felt his wrists grabbed and a moment later, Hollander snapped on the manacles. The shotgun eased up on its pressure and Nash was allowed to turn around.
Hollander was grinning and there was even a suggestion of a smile on Morgan’s battered face.
“You’re finished, Nash,” the sheriff told him.
“I guess you were the one Mitch and the others worked in with, huh?”
“That’s right. We cooperated, set up the robberies, even arranged for a couple of the outlaws to be captured, just to divert suspicion. It was workin’ fine.”
“What happened?”
Hollander’s face straightened. “Never mind. It suited us better to have ’em dead, that’s all you need to know.”
As he reached for Nash’s shoulder, the agent said, “Lucy found some incriminating evidence and blackmailed you, right?”
The sheriff nodded curtly. “Stupid bitch, figurin’ she could get away with it. Parrish reckoned he was smart writin’ it all out, leavin’ it to be passed on to Jim Hume if anythin’ happened to him. But it got caught up in his desk and she found it, aimed to cut in, for her share.”
Nash’s mouth tightened and he shook his head slowly. Lucy hadn’t known about the five thousand dollars sitting in the bank under her own maiden name ...
Clay Nash stumbled out into the passage and Morgan was right behind him, Hollander holding his right arm.
“By the way, Nash,” the sheriff said casually. “You know there’s no circuit judge available for a spell, don’t you?”
The Wells Fargo man frowned but said nothing.
“So I guess we’ll have to throw you in jail for a spell till one can get here, huh?” Race Hollander laughed shortly. “There’s some friends of yours in there already. And they’re expectin’ you!” Even Morgan laughed.
Nash felt a knot in his belly. No wonder they didn’t bother about trying to kill him themselves. He would never reach even a preliminary hearing, let alone a trial.
Putting a lawman in prison with some of the men he had helped send there was the same as a death sentence.