Will Dodd first heard about the Wells Fargo commission to deliver the golden eagle to the State governor when he was stealing a fresh horse from a company corral behind a way-station out along the Resurrection Trail.
It was night and he was on his belly down by the corrals, short rope in hand, selecting his mount from the animals in the pen, when he froze. A cigarette stub arced out from the back porch into the yard and hit with a shower of red sparks.
Then the door opened and a voice said: “Better start gettin’ some target practice in tomorrow.”
“How so?” said another.
“Driver says the company’s shippin’ some kind of gold statue to the governor. Extra guards, express box bolted to the floor, all passengers screened before they board and so on. The stage’ll stop here, of course, and we’ll be responsible. For a spell, leastways.”
“We gettin’ extra pay?”
“Guess so. So we better see if we’re still shootin’ straight come daylight.”
“Hell, yeah. Someone’ll be loco enough to try for it. You can bet on it.”
Dodd lay there until they went back into the building then he stood and casually dropped a loop over the sorrel he had selected.
The news sounded mighty interesting. He aimed to find out a lot more about it. The man who took that away from Wells Fargo would sure make them look like a pack of fools.
And that appealed to Will Dodd.
At an outlaw roost called Pepperpot, Dodd learned more and began to formulate a plan.
The word was out among the men who would be interested in stealing the gold statue; such men always managed to get ‘inside’ information on these things, no matter how many security precautions were taken. Will Dodd was well-known in Pepperpot and other outlaw roosts around the area, and he had no trouble picking up all the details he wanted from the men who gathered in the smoky room of the tumbledown building that served as saloon, whorehouse and cafe to men on the dodge.
Dodd ate a meal and drank half a bottle of whisky in silence at a rear table, listening to the men who came up and gave him whatever they knew about the gold statue. He nodded to each but said nothing.
Then one man, Sling Monroe, leader of a wolf pack that preyed on local settlers and stages and anything else that offered a chance at an easy buck, kicked out a chair and turned it around, dropping into it and folding his arms across the back. He was a big, mean, hard-eyed man with flaming red hair and a cast in his left eye that gave him a kind of off-center, loco look. Which was about right, anyway: he acted loco at times and had been known to rape women passengers and crucify the men on cactus trees. Once he had gutted a buffalo and stuffed two live women inside and sewed up the belly again with rawhide. Then he left them to die in the blistering sun.
He was silent for a while as he stared through the smoke haze at Will Dodd.
“Wells Fargo’s kinda your exclusive territory, I hear, Dodd.”
Will looked at him, munching on his tough beefsteak, and nodded slightly.
“But not this time,” Monroe said softly.
Dodd stopped munching and looked at him hard-eyed.
“No?”
“Nope. This time it’s mine. I’m goin’ after that statue. Worth a quarter-million, and I aim to have it.”
“Hogwash,” Dodd said. “Wouldn’t be worth anythin’ like that. If it was, they’d use the army, a whole damn troop of cavalry, and they’d clear the whole area. It’s made from a big gold nugget. Likely worth maybe ten thousand, but you couldn’t sell it for that. Be too hot to touch.”
“I’ll sell it for a helluva lot more’n ten grand.” Sling Monroe’s eyes were starting to get a crazy glint in them. He didn’t like being doubted, or corrected.
“You can try,” Dodd shrugged.
Monroe lurched to his feet.
“I’ll goddam do it,” he bellowed and there was a sudden silence in the smoke-filled room as Monroe’s chair clattered. He faced Dodd threateningly.
Will raised his eyes without moving his head.
“Take it easy, Sling. No need to fuss. I’m more interested in makin’ Wells Fargo look like fools than making my fortune out of ’em. Always have been. We can work this between us.”
“No,” Monroe snapped. He raised an arm and pointed a rigid finger at Dodd. “You stay out of this one. I’m warnin’ you, Dodd.”
Will Dodd picked up a greasy cloth and stooped to wipe it across his mouth. He used it on his hands and then stood, belching loudly and patting his belly.
“That feels better. So much so that I don’t feel like arguin’ with you, Sling.”
“No need to argue. Just stay away from that stage and you’ll have no trouble.”
Dodd was still rubbing gently at his belly. He pursed his lips. “Well, I dunno as how I can do that, Sling.”
“You better.”
“Nope. Wells Fargo’s kinda special to me, as you know. Grabbin’ that statue would really upset them. Besides, Clay Nash has just got to be involved, and I want that bastard. He killed my kid brother. So, you can see I have to buy in on this one, Sling.”
Before he finished speaking, Dodd’s hands moved across his belly in a blur and his twin six-guns came up, braced against his hips, blazing. Monroe had started to reach for his gun in a cross-draw but he hadn’t a hope in hell—which was where he was headed as Dodd’s lead smashed into his chest and sent him hurtling back across the room, choking and spraying blood. Men scattered but one of Monroe’s hardcases, a hombre going by the name of Kettle, started to draw his gun.
But the big outlaw turned and calmly nailed him through the middle of the face—and saw a swift movement out of the corner of an eye. He spun that way, spotting Monroe’s Mexican knife-thrower sending a blade hurtling towards him at flashing speed. Dodd merely ducked and heard the knife whistle over his head as he triggered with both guns.
The Mexican screamed, snatched at a shattered shoulder and dropped to his knees, blood dripping from his splayed fingers to the filthy floor. Dodd took three short steps to the Mexican, placed the smoking gun barrels against the sobbing man’s head and dropped both hammers.
As the body kicked in its death throes, Dodd turned to face the room, guns ready to shoot again. But there was no more aggression. The men stared at the bodies and at blood patches on the woodwork. Dodd raked his eyes around the room then holstered one gun while he began to reload the other. Finally, he set his gaze on the remainder of Sling Monroe’s bunch, five bleak-eyed men, all professional killers without loyalty, and all willing to side with anyone paying top dollar.
“I need a bunch of hard hombres,” Dodd said quietly. “You know why.” He looked around the room again. “Now, I don’t much care if any of you jaspers got notions about makin’ your own try for this statue; you’re welcome to see what you can do. But I figure you won’t have much chance. I know Wells Fargo. I know the way Hume and Nash think, so I can outsmart ’em. But I must have a few facts first. So, I’ll pay a hundred bucks in gold to the man who brings me the right info about the special stage and the route it’s takin’. If I get a load of hogwash from anyone, the payoff’s gonna be in lead. Now—you trash who rode with Sling: you wanna side me in this or not? There’ll be plenty of takers if you ain’t interested.”
They didn’t hesitate; they knew Dodd’s reputation, and had seen his skill with guns. They moved forward and ranged themselves alongside him. Griffin, Moran, Hackleback, Dixie and Talman.
The six of them made a forbidding and deadly bunch as the other owlhoots and whores stared at them through the haze. Most of the men there never doubted for a moment that Will Dodd and his new wolf pack would grab that golden statue—and likely nail Clay Nash at the same time.
Dodd sure never doubted it, anyway.
It was the first time that Clay Nash had seen Alamogordo in the guise of a boom town. Last time he had been there, the place had been a tolerably quiet cattle town with most folk moving about slowly, depressed because the town had not been provided with a railroad spur and wasn’t serviced by Wells Fargo stages. But the general superintendent of the company had seen some potential in operating the stage run and against the opposition of his shareholders had started the service.
Even before the big gold strike, his decision had been vindicated: folk from many miles around the Alamogordo district made use of the stage and since the strike it was going to be a very profitable time for Wells Fargo.
Alamogordo had doubled in area it seemed to Nash as he hefted his war bag and strolled through the bustling streets. Rough shacks, tents, canvas-walled saloons and eateries, so-called hotels and ‘rooming houses’ had sprung up everywhere. A man could buy bunk-space in a tent—if he were lucky—for three dollars a night. A decent meal cost almost as much and if a man were silly enough to arrive in town without mining tools then he had to expect to pay up to twenty times the normal price for them.
Rifles and ammunition were also expensive but six-guns seemed to range from extra cheap to reasonable in price. Nash, on examining some of the weapons closely, soon saw why: they were unknown brands, turned out by shoestring ‘armories’ that were nothing more than sheds. He saw cracks in the forging, firing pins that were already burred, and wooden foresights painted silver to look like metal. The Colts and Remingtons and Smith-and-Wessons were, of course, highly priced.
Nash shook his head as he walked out of the store. These were the men who would make the real money: the storekeepers, the saloon men, the gamblers and the strings of painted whores. They supplied the ‘necessities’ and the hard-working men who came to make their fortunes, usually lost it to the leeches who promoted them. Some prospectors, of course, struck it really rich and it was the news of these strikes that kept the other hopefuls digging and panning.
The Wells Fargo man saw the brick-fronted Bank of New Mexico across the churned-up plaza and weaved his way between the wagons and horsemen who crowded into the area. He had let his hair grow and also his moustache and sideburns. Instead of his usual range clothes, Nash was dressed in claw hammer coat, striped trousers tucked into the tops of plain, highly-polished leather half boots, and a white shirt with a black string tie. He wore his usual six-gun and carried a standard rifle. His hat, instead of being the beaten-up affair that he favored, was a flat-crowned, fawn-colored Stetson with plaited tan leather band that had a single silver concha in the shape of a longhorn steer’s head at the front. He didn’t resemble the legendary Clay Nash and it would take more than a second glance for an outlaw to pick him as the top Wells Fargo operative.
Just the same, a man like Will Dodd, who knew Nash well, wouldn’t be fooled for more than a few seconds.
Nash went into the bank and was immediately stopped by two men armed with shotguns.
“Just hold up a moment, sir,” one man said, his tone polite, but his eyes hard and deadly. “Could you identify yourself?”
Nash noticed the shotgun’s hammers were cocked.
“I could. And, I guess by the looks of those guns, I’d better. Now don’t get trigger-happy, gents, but I’m goin’ to reach inside my jacket for my billfold. Okay?”
The guards said nothing but there was a shade more alertness in their cold eyes as Nash took out a tan leather wallet, opened it, and took out a printed card. He held it up for the guards to see:
NATHAN CLAY—CATTLE AGENT
“Mr. Stewart’s expectin’ me,” Nash added, and one of the guards consulted a list he had hanging on the post and nodded slowly.
“This way, Mr. Clay,” he said and Nash followed him through to the rear of the bank to the president’s office.
He went in through a glass door bearing the name: ‘ Stewart’.
Inside, a gray-haired man, nervous-looking but well-fed and neatly dressed in a gray suit, came around the desk. His right hand thrust out and Nash gripped with him briefly, setting down his war bag and rifle.
“Glad you got here, Clay. I’ve been sweating off pounds each day with that damn eagle settin’ in the vaults. We’ve made a couple of decoy runs, of course, but I won’t be happy till the real thing’s on its way. I’ve arranged with Wells Fargo for the stage to leave in the morning with it, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure, Lin. Sooner I get it to Santa Fe, the happier I’ll be, too. You’ve got a special valise, I believe?”
Stewart nodded and went to a cupboard. He brought out a scuffed and battered leather valise with faded initials—N.C.—burned into the leather. There was a brass lock that had been mangled around the key hole and looked as though it wouldn’t work in a hundred years. The handle had been repaired with leather thonging of a different color to the rest of the valise. There were expanding compartments and one was worn through on a corner.
“Looks mighty old and well-used,” Stewart said. “But that center compartment’s lined with sheet metal and is padded to take the eagle so it won’t move around. There’s an internal lock on that compartment and this outside one, though it looks chewed-up, will hold against a jemmy when you use the key I’ll give you. There are papers in the outer two compartments that represent bills of sale for cattle you’ve supposedly bought around the State and a little money, also a bank draft book and a registry of brands, some letters between you and meat-packing houses back east and railroads and so on. You’ve plenty of authentic identification should you need it. Oh, and there’s also a special pocket for a twin-barreled Remington Derringer which can be reached through the slit in the bottom of this outside compartment. Might come in handy.”
Nash examined the satchel and nodded in approval. Jim Hume and the banker had done a fine job.
“Well, guess all that remains now is for me to take a look at the statue,” he said.
Stewart nodded and, carrying the satchel, Nash followed him through a door that led to the bank’s vault area. They walked inside past more hard-eyed guards armed with shotguns and went to a private section in a rear corner. The banker used a set of keys on three different locks in a safe built into the back of the vault, knelt and lifted out a wooden box which he set on a small table. Then he lifted the lid and the four sides folded down and Nash whistled softly as he gazed at the golden eagle destined for the State governor.
It stood about nine inches high and every detail that Nash could recall having seen on a real bird seemed to have been captured in gold by the sculptor. Not only were there individual feathers, but each feather seemed to have its full complement of lines and even the tips around the breast area had a ‘fluffy’, paler look. The eyes had iris and pupil, the beak seemed parted just slightly so that the rough sides of the small tongue just showed. There were individual scales on the feet and the claws, wrapped around a golden bough that showed beetle tracks in the metallic ‘bark’, seemed wicked enough and sharp enough to rip the living heart out of a jackrabbit. Just beneath the breast was a beautifully emblazoned shield, the ‘ribbons’ seeming so real that Nash almost expected them to drift in the air movement as he turned the statue in his hands. It was engraved: To Our Beloved Governor, From The Grateful Folk Of Alamogordo, New Mexico, 1884.
“Wonderful piece of work, eh?” Stewart said, taking the statue from Nash and setting it back on its base in the specially constructed box. He folded up the hinged sides and slipped the lid on again, then returned the whole thing to the safe. He seemed relieved and actually wiped sweat from his face as he turned to face Nash again. “You can see why it’s regarded as a work of art.”
“Sure can. Must’ve taken a lot of time to do.”
“Yes, indeed. Now you’ll pick that up just before the stage is due to leave and you’ll make a ‘depot-jump’ as it pulls out, all right?”
Nash nodded. A ‘depot-jump’ was equivalent to what old windjammer sailors called a ‘pierhead jump’—which meant a man boarded a ship at the very last moment, just as it was pulling out.
“What about other passengers?” Nash asked.
“Keeping them to a minimum, I believe. They’ve been checked and re-checked by Hume and the local Fargo agent—I understand you’re not to have any contact with him while you’re here?”
Nash nodded: “Jim figured it’d be best if I just turned up in the role of Nathan Clay, cattle buyer. Comin’ to see the banker is somethin’ a real cattle agent would do to get his letters of credit and drafts and so on, but the only contact he’d be likely to have with Wells Fargo would be when he books his ticket. That’s why all the instructions were passed along to you.”
“Yes, well I think I’ve told you everything, Clay. I’ll be damn glad to get the eagle off my hands and I sure don’t envy you the job of getting it safely to Santa Fe.”
“What about this decoy stage?”
“It leaves a couple of hours ahead of yours, taking the route out through Peckham and Bowie before swinging back onto the Santa Fe trail. Your stage takes an even longer route, I understand: servicing the small hamlets in the Arrowhead Hills. Hume figured it’d look better if you took a stage that didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to get to Santa Fe. But, actually, it’ll skirt the hills and by-pass the settlements so it’ll arrive in Santa Fe three days ahead of schedule—just in case someone was going to make their try from that end.”
Nash pushed his hat to the back of his head as they walked out of the vault.
“Well, Jim seems to’ve taken care of most everything. Guess the rest of it is up to me.”
“It sure is and you’re welcome to it.”
Nash grunted as they went back to Stewart’s office.