The Jarvess family rode into the small canyon just a fraction after sundown.
They had planned it that way.
McGovern’s body lay under the tarp in the bouncing buckboard as the old man tooled the vehicle over the rough trail.
The cave mouth was outlined by a small campfire deep in the hillside. A dark shape lounged in the entrance, watching as the three reined down.
“Where’s McGovern?” Tyler asked tightly.
“We-ell, he was kind of—foolish,” the Old Man said from the buckboard seat. “We made a small request but he got riled and tried to blow my head off. Naturally, my boys had to step in.”
Tyler was silent for a moment or two. “Naturally,” he said dryly. “That him lyin’ under the tarp?”
“Uh-huh.”
Tyler walked to the side of the buckboard and lifted the edge of the tarp. He flung it back and could just make out the bullet-riddled body of McGovern. He sucked in his breath.
“Judas! You sure made a sieve out of him.”
“Him or us,” Tag said.
“Pa,” Chet said uneasily. “Where’s Wyatt an’ Marlowe?”
“Where they should be,” Tyler said suddenly and leapt back from the buckboard, dragging his Colt and shooting.
Old Man Jarvess spun over the backrest of the seat as lead slammed into him and Tyler dived full length into the cave.
“Pa,” cried Tag as his horse went down under him from bullets fired from a high ledge on the far side of the canyon.
He rolled out of the saddle and came up on one knee, blazing three fast shots at the ledge, then leaping up and running for the rear of the buckboard.
The mules brayed and reared—then charged forward, with sand and mud flying from the buckboard wheels.
Old Man Jarvess clambered groggily to his knees and groped over the back of the seat, trying to reach the flying reins. Blood was seeping through his shirt.
Chet spun his mount, shooting up at the ledge, and moving forward to try to help Tag.
But Tyler stepped out of the cave with a sawn-off shotgun and dropped both hammers as Tag staggered upright and lunged for the cave entrance.
He stopped as if he had slammed into a solid wall, and his jerking body spun and was hurled backwards—his head hanging by a shred to his shoulders.
Chet felt his gorge rise and he screamed a curse and rode in with gun blazing at Tyler. But the outlaw had ducked back into the protection of the cave and Chet was blasted from the saddle by the gunfire from the ledge.
“Chet!” Old Man Jarvess cried as the buckboard cleared the canyon and, clinging to the rear of the driving seat, he saw both his sons cut down. “Tag, boy,” he groaned.
Then the buckboard bounced over a rock and he was thrown heavily into the rear. He felt the blood on his groping hand while he tried to get out his six-gun, knowing it was no good. They had been bushwhacked properly and both his sons were dead.
And he was dying ...
But he knew he’d feel better about it—if only he could take those three killers with him. One thing, anyway: they would never get the loot, because they didn’t even know where to begin looking. He was now the only living person who knew ...
And that thought gave him strength.
Tyler and his pards would already have realized that. So they would be coming after him, to torture the location out of him ...
With an immense effort, he clambered over the dead body of McGovern and somehow managed to get back into the driving seat. He hung on desperately with one hand, coughing and tasting blood, knowing by the way his breath bubbled in his throat that he was lung shot. He felt the rein ends and grabbed them, looped them around his hand and wrist and guided the panic-stricken mules away from the trail they had used coming in.
His vision was blurred and things kept going in and out of focus, but if only he could find his way down out of the breaks—and he had often claimed he could do it blindfolded—then he might spike their guns.
Old Man Jarvess figured he was dying anyway and if the worst came to the worst, he would run the buckboard off a cliff.
Leastways, he thought he could do it. It would take a lot of guts, but if it meant Tyler wouldn’t get his hands on that strongbox ...
“That old sidewinder must be able to see in the dark,” snapped Wyatt as he reined down his sweating mount on a knoll. “Listen to the speed that buckboard’s travelin’ at.”
Tyler and Marlowe reined down alongside and he heard the distant rattle of the vehicle clattering along the track below.
“He’s alive, anyways,” gritted Marlowe. “Which means he’ll talk when we get our hands on him.”
“If we do,” Tyler said. “C’mon. He’s gettin’ further away by the minute.”
He put his mount down the dim trail, cursing that the stars weren’t out. Old Man Jarvess had outfoxed them in that way, by arriving at the rendezvous just after dark. He knew there would be at least an hour between sundown and the first appearance of the stars. But it made no difference to him. In fact it was an advantage. He could find his way around the hills like no other man.
But Tyler knew he had hit the old man high in the chest and it was likely Jarvess was already dying. Tyler sensed the urgency: he had to get his hands on that old outlaw before he cashed in his chips—and took with him the whereabouts of the hole-in-the-wall.
If the old man died before they found him they would spend the rest of their lives searching ...
They managed to hold him within earshot until the first stars came out. Twenty minutes later they sighted him almost directly below a steep mountainside.
“Come on,” Tyler snapped. “If we lose him, we lose a fortune.”
Without hesitation, he put his mount straight over the edge and began the steep and dangerous descent straight across the face of the mountain. Marlowe sucked in his breath and Wyatt hesitated for almost a half minute before finally plucking up courage enough to set his mount down the dark hillside.
Marlowe gritted his teeth and eased his horse off the edge of the trail. It fought him, but he was committed and he had to struggle to hold the animal’s head upright or he would sail over its ears.
Old Man Jarvess was suffering badly. His shirt was soaked with blood, some pulsing out of the bullet wound—the rest from what he had coughed up. His senses were reeling and he figured he was sinking fast ...
He managed to turn his head and he saw the three outlaws’ darker shapes against the paleness of the mountain slope. They were coming straight down on top of him and he knew they would be with him within ten minutes. Jarvess didn’t think he would die that fast and he didn’t trust himself if they caught him. He’d seen what Tyler could do to a man before with hot coals and boiling water ...
Guns hammered and two bullets thudded into the bed of the buckboard. That was it. They were within gunshot. They’d bring down the mules and it would be all over. He would awake to find Tyler bending over him holding a red hot knife blade.
Old Man Jarvess didn’t hesitate.
He hauled sharply on the left rein and before the mules could correct their movement, they answered instinctively—and went straight over a cliff.
They squealed and thrashed as the buckboard and its passenger plunged through the darkness towards oblivion ...
The three outlaws reined down sharply at the point where the buckboard had disappeared.
“Hell almighty!” breathed Marlowe. “He done that a’purpose.”
“Just drove straight off the cliff,” breathed Wyatt, a grudging note of admiration in his voice.
Tyler savagely fought his prancing mount and looked down into the darkness.
“Shut up and listen,” he snapped.
The others fell silent and then they, too heard it—the sound of rushing water.
“There’s a damn river below,” Marlowe said incredulously.
“Must be the Pioneer,” Wyatt said.
“I don’t give a damn what river it is,” snapped Tyler. “But it’s water. And it sounds deep. It means that Old Man Jarvess mightn’t be dead. Were goin’ down there to find out.”
“Hell, we can’t climb down in the dark,” Marlowe protested.
“We’ll wait,” Tyler decided grimly. “We’ll wait for first light. An’ if his body ain’t in the wreckage of that buckboard, we’re goin’ lookin’ for it an’ we don’t give up till we find him—dead or alive.”
Jim Hume wiped the beer foam from his lips and set down the heavy glass tankard. Across the table from him, Clay Nash wolfed into a plate of bacon and eggs and French-fried potatoes. Around them, the big bar of the saloon hummed with conversation.
“Well, you got it down to Mathers, you reckon, Clay?”
Nash shrugged. “So far it looks that way. Others I been investigatin’ all seem innocent. But Mathers has had a couple days off at his ranch. I asked around town an’ found out he picked up a package at the post office. Pretty soon afterwards, he went to the bank across the way and deposited what the clerk described as ‘a considerable amount of money’. He wouldn’t say how much, of course.”
Hume paused with a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, looking at Nash sharply. “By hell, Clay, that sounds like pay-off money to me.”
“Sure does.”
“Well, what you doing sitting here stuffing your face? You ought to be heading for Mathers’ spread.”
“He ain’t going anywhere, Jim.”
“You’re sure of that, huh?”
“He deposited the money to his account, remember? He’s aiming to stick around seems to me.”
Hume swallowed some food, then pointed with the fork. “You can have bank accounts transferred without hardly any trouble at all these days, Clay. An’ it’s often a less noticeable way of doin’ things if anyone has a notion to drop out of sight.”
Nash allowed that was so but said he was playing a strong hunch that Mathers was planning on sticking around and maybe feathering his nest again by selling other Wells Fargo secrets.
“Long as he doesn’t know the combination of the lock on that strongbox,” Nash concluded, “there’s no real hurry, Jim.”
“There is,” Hume told him in clipped tones. “Head Office. They’re ridin’ me, Clay. They want results—and fast. So do I.”
Nash finished the last mouthful of food, drank the remainder of his beer, then stood up, jamming his hat on his head.
“Right.” He said, and headed for the batwings.
“Wait a minute, damn it! I’ve got a field report for you to read.”
“I already talked to the agents. They found the express car in the river like you figured and lost the tracks of a buckboard that was obviously used to carry the strongbox. Nothin’ in that for me. Adios.”
“Listen, you take care, Clay. Hear?”
Nash waved in weary acknowledgment and pushed through the batwings. He’d been riding night and day, sitting up studying reports, watching suspects. He was damned tired and in no mood for any rah-rah talks from Hume. It wasn’t like Jim Hume. The man liked action as much as Nash did himself. But more and more lately Wells Fargo’s Head Office was tying Hume to his desk. Maybe that’s what was souring the man.
Nash got himself a sorrel at the livery and rode out of town in the steamy noon heat. It was still muggy and the skies were swollen and gray and looked as if they would open up any time.
Nash reached the Mathers spread late in the afternoon and saw a man run from the small bunkhouse to the main building, a clapboard and wooden-shingle-roofed structure that spoke of permanence.
More than ever Nash felt that Mathers had no intention of clearing out. Which didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t think he was suspected; just that he had other plans for his future.
The Wells Fargo man dismounted by the corrals and took his heavy caliber Winchester from the saddle. He figured that the move would have them wondering. And, while they were uncertain about his intentions, he might learn something.
Two men came onto the shadowed porch and he recognized Mathers from Hume’s description. Medium tall, neatly-dressed in striped trousers and white shirt, and packing a .38 Smith and Wesson in a cross-draw holster.
His sidekick was bigger, looked like an outdoorsman, wore crumpled range clothes and packed a single, short-barreled Colt. His high-crowned hat was pushed to the back of his head and he watched Nash walk up with his easy stride from narrowed, suspicious eyes. Mathers seemed wary, though he tried hard to cover it.
“Don’t much care for strangers arrivin’ this time of day and packin’ a rifle, mister,” Mathers called.
Nash grinned as he sauntered forward. “Kind of a habit. Like to keep my rifle handy. No offence, Mr. Mathers.”
Mathers frowned and squinted. “I know you?”
“Mebbe the name. Clay Nash.”
The Wells Fargo man placed a boot on the bottom step as he spoke, and saw the quiet glance Mathers threw the big man at his side. The man stepped forward abruptly.
“Far enough, Nash.”
Nash looked at him then moved his gaze to Mathers. “He got a say in things round here?”
“My foreman—Zack Avery. And, yes, I’ve heard of you, Nash. Wells Fargo trouble-shooter. Guess you’ll be here about the Cannon Creek train robbery, right?”
Nash nodded and thumbed back his hat. “Few questions if you don’t mind. Been checking up on everyone.”
“Sure, only thing to do. But I got nothin’ to hide. I been off on a couple days leave. I work it with the agent when there’s anything urgent needs doing out here on the ranch. I do extra shifts to make up for it. Take the time, ’stead of the money.”
Nash glanced around. “Nice spread. Take a lot to run, though. How many men you got?”
“Enough,” snapped Avery and Nash smiled thinly.
“An’ that is ...?”
“Four, includin’ Zack,” Mathers answered. “I’m just gettin’ started, Nash.”
“Not bad for a stage depot clerk, though.”
Mathers laughed. “I had me a small legacy.”
“Before or after you left Santa Fe-Topeka?”
Mathers’ face straightened abruptly and Zack Avery seemed to tense.
“You been diggin’, Nash. I don’t like your tone, but it so happened to be before I left the railroad. It’s why I took the Wells Fargo job. I knew this was the area I wanted to settle in. I looked around, spied this place going at the price I was prepared to pay and put down a deposit. Bank’s got the mortgage for the rest.”
Nash knew his face showed surprise. “You don’t own it outright, then?”
Mathers smiled tautly. “Didn’t know that, huh? No, I’m just payin’ it off like any other poor stiff tryin’ to own somethin’.”
Nash decided to play a hunch. “But you could clear the mortgage if you wanted to, couldn’t you?”
The rancher frowned. “What makes you think that?”
“Maybe there’s somethin’ you didn’t know. Wells Fargo’s got fingers in a lot of financial pies, includin’ a lot of bank corporations. They got a slice of the one in Cannon Creek. President’s obligated to co-operate with Hume and me. We can even get a look at accounts when we need to.”
The rancher’s eyes blazed and his fists clenched.
“Easy, boss,” Avery gritted quietly. “He’s bluffin’. Only a Federal Marshal can do that an’ even he’s gotta have a special warrant ...”
“You mean like this?” Nash said, brandishing a legal-looking oblong of paper. It was, in fact, a Wells Fargo Prospectus on the back of which Jim Hume had written the names of the men who worked at the stage depot...and who were under suspicion. Mathers’ name, of course, was on that list with a cross beside it. In the half-light Nash hoped it would look like a warrant. But if they demanded a look at it ...
“You lousy snooper,” Zack Avery gritted.
Mathers said nothing, but his nostrils were pinched and white as he stared at the document.
Nash put it back in his pocket and casually added, “That big deposit you made yesterday, after you picked up the package at the post office, boosted your bank account considerably, didn’t it, Mathers?”
“You damn snake, you been watchin’ me.”
“And your bank account,” Nash said, driving home what he felt was his advantage. “You got a heap of questions to answer, Mathers. Better come on back to town with me. Hume wants you in his office ...”
Mathers growled deeply in his throat and Zack Avery snapped his gaze towards him suddenly, alarmed. Then the rancher’s hand whipped across his body towards the butt of the Smith and Wesson as he screamed, “Bastards.”
“Boss,” Avery shouted, and thrust Mathers aside as he reached for his gun.
Nash leapt back, levered a shell into the breech of the rifle, and triggered.
The big foreman staggered as the heavy caliber bullet smashed his shoulder. Nash levered again, fired—and shot the man’s legs from under him as he whirled towards Mathers.
But the man was already bringing up his double-action revolver.
All he had to do was keep pulling the trigger: there was no need for him to cock the hammer first. The gun spat four rapid shots, sounding like a hammer striking a pine plank in ragged tattoo and Nash’s hat spun from his head. He twisted, dropping to one knee, rifle butt braced against his hip as he fired.
The big rifle’s thunder drowned the Smith and Wesson’s fifth shot and Mathers was hurled backwards as if someone behind him had violently jerked a wire. He smashed into his front wall and slithered slowly to the porch.
Splinters flew from the corner post and Nash spun, hurling himself flat as three men in the bunkhouse opened up on him. He got off two shots and one of the men made a run for the corrals.
Nash brought him down with a shot through the head. The man died so quickly that his legs kept going in mid-air before his body crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust.
Another man leapt out with a shotgun and the heavy weapon blasted, kicking up a sheet of dust and stones nearby as Nash dropped the empty rifle, rolled over and over and drew his Colt. He hammered three fast shots and the man jerked, staggered and bounced off the bunkhouse wall, tumbling backwards to sprawl across the door stoop.
“Hold it. Hold it,” shouted the remaining man, appearing in the doorway, tossing out his rifle and thrusting his hands in the air. “I’m just a hoss-wrangler. I ain’t buyin’ into any gunfights, mister.”
“Get over here,” Nash commanded, and the man did so warily. He was lean and young and scared. “You the last?”
“Yeah. An’ I don’t even know what happened. The other two just said grab your gun, the boss is in trouble ... Well, hell. I only signed on last week an’ it wasn’t all fightin’ wages, so, if there’s any kinda beef, count me out.”
Nash believed him and jerked his head towards the bunkhouse. “Best grab your bedroll and vamoose then, kid. You’re out of a job.”
“Suits me,” the wrangler said and hurried off.
Nash turned back to the porch, reloading the Colt and holstering it before picking up the rifle and filling it with fresh shells.
Mathers was dying and Zack Avery was almost crying with the pain of the bullet that had passed through both his legs. He looked up fearfully as Nash spoke.
“He sold information to Old Man Jarvess and his boys, right?” he barked.
Avery nodded vigorously. “Listen—get me a sawbones. Please.”
The horse wrangler was already flying out of the bunkhouse and racing towards the corrals. Nash called to him.
“Send out a sawbones from town, will you, feller?”
“Yessir,” the kid answered, then hurriedly saddled a mount and quit the ranch yard at a gallop.
Nash squatted beside Avery, barely glancing at the dying Mathers.
“Where were they goin’ after the robbery, Zack?”
Avery clawed at his legs.
“I—I don’t know nothin’ ...”
“You know enough to help me.” Nash stood and went into the house. He came back with a tin bowl of water and some rags. He started to wash Avery’s shoulder wound, then bound it firmly with a bandage.
The foreman stared at him incredulously, his eyes sunken in his pain-gray face. He watched as Nash slit his trouser legs and began to work on the wounds ...
Suddenly, Nash stopped and looked straight into the ramrod’s eyes.
“Course, I could just as well leave you bleed to death. Or set a tourniquet so tight you couldn’t release it an’ by the time the sawbones arrived, you’d have gangrene in both legs an’ have to have ’em cut off. I seen that operation once. Had to help hold down the feller while the doc sharpened up his saw and put a basin just like that under the leg to catch the blood ...”
Avery screamed. “Don’t. Don’t, Nash. God, man, I’m a cowboy. Been one all my life. I—I’d die without my legs.”
Nash smiled sympathetically. “Yeah. Savvy how you feel. Still, it’s up to you, ain’t it?”
He picked up a length of harness strap and snapped it taut. “Might be a trifle narrow for a tourniquet, but I guess it’ll have to do ...”
“No,” Avery screamed again as Nash made to put the leather strap around the man’s bleeding leg. “Look—I dunno much. I know Mathers met the Jarvess bunch an’ did some sort of deal about that train. Old Man Jarvess was here twice, his boys just the first time. I ... I overheard some of the talk. The breaks was mentioned and a place called Mustang Mesa or Canyon, I ain’t quite sure ... I—I think it was where they had some spare mounts or guns stashed. I—I dunno much—It’s all I could make out. I was leery of the sons. They looked mean critters and kept checkin’ the window to make sure no one was there.”
“Mathers mention anything about the Jarvess hidey-hole?”
Avery shook his head. “Don’t think he knew where they hung out. He said once he was sure the old man had mentioned a cathedral but he couldn’t make head or tail of that ...”
“Nor me,” Nash said frowning. “Anythin’ else?”
“No, that’s all. I swear it, Nash.”
“Well, you just think about it some before I bandage up them wounds, huh?”
“But—but they’re still bleedin’.”
Nash shrugged. “Quicker you get your memory workin’, the sooner I can bandage ’em.”
“You’re a hard bastard, Nash.”
“You’re wastin’ thinkin’ time, Avery,” Nash said and sat back on his hams, reaching into his shirt pocket for tobacco and papers. “But you take your time—they’re your legs.”
Zack Avery groaned.