“There’s a rock shaped like a man’s bald head about a hundred yards along,” Lucy Briggs said, looking at Nash, but by no means ignoring Harlan. “Tell the driver to turn off the main trail there. He’ll find a grade that leads down and if he follows the general course of the river, he’ll come to a canyon. He’s to drive in there and stop, do nothing but stop the coach and sit with his hands in his lap. The guard is to throw away his shotgun. Now!”
Nash gave her a hard look but poked his head out the window and called up to the driver.
“Jack—we’ve got us a small problem down here. Want you to turn left by a rock that looks like a bald head just up the trail. Can you see it?”
There was silence from above for a spell and then the driver’s voice drifted down.
“I see it, Clay. Left, you said?”
“Left. And, Chip—throw away that shotgun. Let it drop past the window so we can see it fall.”
“Clay, I—”
“Do it, Chip,” Nash snapped. “Or I’ll get my head blowed off. And—take her real steady, Jack. We don’t want to roll.”
“Got it, Clay,” Jack called and they could feel the stage slowing as it approached the bald-head rock.
A second later, the guard’s shotgun dropped past the window and thudded to the trail.
The girl nodded at Nash.
“Now you’re bein’ sensible. Keep it that way and everybody’ll be happy. You’d both better put your guns down on the floor. No. Throw ’em out the window.”
Neither man made any move to obey, and Lucy Biggs tightened her grip on her gun.
“Throw ’em out the window, I said,” she snapped.
“I suppose Will Dodd’s waitin’ for us in that canyon?” Nash asked.
“Yes. Now—your gun, damn it.”
“How come you know Dodd? Lew Latham had you figured for genuine. Your husband dyin’ on a hard rock spread up in the hills behind the way-station.”
The woman tensed as her gaze darted from Nash to the doctor.
“The guns.”
“We’ll get around to ’em,” Nash said casually. “How about Dodd?”
“One of his men is my brother—Talman,” she said quickly, starting to get worried. “I warn you. I’ll shoot if you don’t throw those guns out, pronto.”
Nash grinned. “Dodd’d kill you if you did that. He’ll want me alive.”
She moved the gun barrel a little so that it covered the doctor.
“He ain’t interested in him,” she threatened.
Harlan’s eyes slitted and he glanced at Nash.
“Don’t get excited,” he told the girl. “I’ll get rid of the gun.” He started to reach across his body with his right hand but a jerk of the girl’s gun stopped him.
“Use your left,” she snapped.
He sighed and started the awkward business of getting his gun out with his left hand. He inched it up and reluctantly dropped it out the window as the stage rocked and began its turn to the left by the bald-head rock.
Lucy Briggs’ gun swung back to Nash.
“Now you.”
Nash shrugged and started to reach awkwardly across his body with his left hand. Suddenly, there was a wild yell from the driver and the sharp crack of his whip as the team hit the harness solidly, jerking the stage forward. Nash had used code when he passed on the girl’s orders to Jack, and was prepared for the sudden lurch. The girl and the doctor were not. When the stage abruptly slammed forward, the girl was thrown to the edge of the seat and was bounced into the air. Nash leapt for her, and Harlan threw himself forward as she started to bring the gun around.
There was a muffled explosion and the doctor reeled back, grabbing at his side. Nash gripped the woman’s wrist and twisted savagely. She cried out in pain as he wrenched the gun free and heaved her violently back into her seat. The breath gusted from her and she gave a quiet sob as she snatched at her sprained wrist.
“You all right, Clay?” called the guard, hanging over the side and looking into the stage.
“Okay, Chip. Tell Jack to turn whenever he can and get back to the trail. Will Dodd’s waitin’ up ahead in a canyon with a wild bunch. They might’ve heard that shot. They’re looking for us, anyway, so they’ll likely come gunnin’.”
The guard’s head disappeared and Nash glanced from the pale-faced girl to Harlan who was kneeling on the floor, examining the wound in his side.
“You all right, Doc?”
“I reckon. Bullet grazed my ribs.” He fumbled in his black bag and took out some clean cotton pads.
While he doctored himself, Nash glanced out the window, looking towards the canyon. There were no signs of any riders.
“Thanks for what you did, Doc,” he told Harlan. “Sorry I had you figured for Dodd’s man.”
Harlan smiled wryly as he stuffed the cotton over the bleeding wound.
“I knew something was wrong the way she kept that so-called baby swaddled up in this heat. I figured it was already dead or dyin’. There had to be somethin’ loco about it. Two hours in the waitin’ room at the way-station, four hours in the stage, and not even a wet diaper to change. Didn’t ring true, but I could see she was all shook-up about somethin’. I figured that durin’ the run to Santa Fe I could gain her confidence and see what was really botherin’ her. I never reckoned it would be anythin’ like this.”
Nash set his cold gaze on the woman as she clung to the seat while the coach rocked and rumbled and swayed over broken trails. Jack was trying to find a place to turn but the area was too narrow and he had to draw closer to the canyon entrance while he searched.
“What happened to your real baby?” Nash asked her suddenly.
Her eyes clouded and, for a moment, her full lower lip trembled slightly.
“She—died up in the hills. We had no money for a doctor and we were too far away to try to get one, to come up to the ranch. Tom—my husband—decided to ride in anyway. But—the horse threw him and he broke his neck. While I was—buryin’ him, the—baby just—passed away—”
Her voice broke a little though she made a strong effort not to allow her emotions to show.
“Then your brother came out of nowhere with Dodd and put a proposition to you, huh? Get the drop on me in the stage and—what? You were to get a share of the eagle?”
He tapped the satchel at his side. The girl nodded.
“I needed money to go East, to my married sister in Denver.”
“Here they come, Clay,” roared Chip from up top suddenly. “Out of the canyon. Five of ’em—no, six. One’s draggin’ a ways.”
“Make a run for it, Jack,” Nash yelled but the driver was already doing his best to get the stage away from the outlaws.
The trail was narrow and the canyon mouth was slightly above the coach. Jack saw that to make his turn in one sweeping arc, he would have to ride into the canyon itself. So, with the outlaws thundering down on him, he yanked the reins and ran the team into a rocky bed, stopping the front wheels of the coach just short of the first of the rough boulders. He backed and filled, yanking and sawing and cussing, while Chip rapidly began shooting at the outlaws, not bothering to aim.
It scattered them and made them duck and, for a few moments, they held their fire. Those few moments gave Jack all the time he needed to get the coach turned around. It tilted dangerously on the edge of the slope as he heaved the team around.
The stage rocked and swayed and banged and an iron tire struck sparks from a rock as it bounced across but finally it was turned about.
The horses hit the harness collars with a thud that shook the coach and then the wheels spun up a cloud of choking dust and the whole rig was racing back towards the trail. Will Dodd and his men came thundering in, shooting wildly, but unable to select targets because of the thick dust cloud. They spread out but the dust seemed to roll with them as it boiled up through the narrow defile and Dodd and his men had no choice but to fall in behind the stage and follow it. They knew that once it hit the regular trail there would be room for them to fan out on either side, overtake it, and pick off the guard and driver.
Moran rode behind the main body of the outlaws, favoring his side where he had been wounded in the hold-up at High Hat. Reeling with fever and weakness, he fired once in a while without purpose, merely letting Dodd know that he was still with the bunch and doing what he could .
Inside the coach, it was a mighty rough ride. As the vehicle bounced and clattered along, Nash and the others hung on grimly. The girl gripped a window frame and the edge of her corner seat, pressing back against the thin upholstery, her eyes showing some fear and obviously thinking they were going to crash at any time.
It wasn’t an unreasonable thought, either, Nash reckoned. Jack was driving like a maniac, taking desperate risks, bouncing the stage over rock fields that he would normally take his time weaving through. Any time, Nash half expected to hear the ringing clang of a tire jolting loose from the rim and then the splintering of collapsing spokes. Or maybe he would just have time to glimpse the spinning world through the window before the whole kit-and-caboodle somersaulted and skidded along upside down or on its side, plowing a wide furrow across the rugged hillside.
Although he had faith in Jack as a driver—he had been especially selected for this run—Nash would rather have been up top beside the man to see just what was going on, instead of being inside and flung about like a corncob in a husker.
There was so much noise going on in and around the stage that he couldn’t hear the gunfire. Fighting the forces of acceleration, Nash clawed his way to a window, grabbed the edge of the frame, and heaved himself along the narrow seat. He squinted out into the boiling dust but could see nothing behind. To the side, rocks and brush whipped past, alarmingly close, and ahead, all he could see was more dust boiling up and hurtling back at him from under the front wheels and the hoofs of the flying team.
He pulled his head back in, coughing, figuring he just had to leave it all up to Jack.
Harlan seemed little the worse for the bullet graze in his side. He had managed to bandage himself before the wild ride had started in earnest. He was crouched beside the window on the opposite side to Nash, holding tightly to the woman’s gun. He glanced at Nash.
“You see ’em?” he barked.
Nash shook his head. “Too much dust. Which is just as well. They can’t see us to shoot at properly. But once we hit the hardpan of the regular trail there won’t be so much dust and they’ll have plenty of room to swing out around us and come in from both sides. Save your ammo till then.”
Harlan nodded and returned his gaze to the window.
Jack tried to stand in the seat but the motion was far too rough. The whip lashed and cracked and the curses roared out of him in an endless stream. Chip hung on hard to the iron seat rail. He turned, his bandanna over his nose and mouth and squinted into the dust screen. As soon as he could see something through the swirling haze, he was going to start shooting.
The stage approached the bald-head rock and Jack handled the lurching vehicle like the veteran he was. He kicked at the brake bar and slammed on the pressure. Then he released it, allowed the stage to roll a couple of yards and slammed on the brake again, releasing it almost immediately. The iron tires skidded over the rough ground, unable to bite, but because the pressure was not sustained, the coach did not go into a slide. This was the danger, that it would begin a slide that could not be stopped and would end up turning turtle.
Jack juggled the brake bar and reins, forgetting the whip and howling at the team to slow down and to turn. His shoulders were rigid as the muscles took the strain. The dust began to settle. Chip, sliding about on his seat, could see hazy shadows. He triggered and the rifle bucked in his hand. He braced his boots against the footboard as the stage slewed and rocked dangerously, then straightened to an even keel as it finally slid onto the regular Arrowhead trail. Jack let out one almighty ‘yaaaa-haaaa!’ cracked his whip rapidly, and flicked the reins.
The sweating team slammed into the harness and the stage hardly lost any speed as they strained to heave it up the slope of the trail. Chip could see Dodd and his men coming in around the bald-head rock. His lead sprayed sandstone from the rock and one of the raiders swung violently aside as the bullet ricocheted.
Will Dodd swung out onto the trail, threw his rifle to his shoulder and stood in the stirrups. His rifle whiplashed and Chip spun back into his seat, sobbing, his rifle falling over the side. Jack jerked towards him, seeing the blood spurting from his shoulder.
Chip awkwardly dragged out his six-gun with his left hand and began shooting over the top of the coach, his right arm hanging uselessly. Jack lashed wildly with the whip and turned his full attention to the team.
Clay Nash leaned out the window and snapped a shot at a rider. He saw a brief spurt of dust from the rim of the man’s hat as the rider reeled a little then kept coming and returned the fire.
The lead punched through the side of the coach and the girl gave a small scream and covered her face with her hands. Nash reached up and dragged her onto the floor between the seats. Harlan was shooting out of his window and cussing under his breath as he missed. He seemed to blame the unfamiliar gun that he was using, looking at it savagely after each shot.
“See how much thought Dodd’s givin’ you now?” Nash rapped at the white-faced girl.
She said nothing, but crouched low as more bullets tore up the coach body, sending splinters flying and punching holes in the upholstery. Nash lifted his head up and snapped a shot outside. But he wasn’t hitting anything. The riders were a little above the coach on his side, putting their mounts up the first slope of the hills and shooting down to advantage. A couple of men thundered along behind, shooting directly into the body of the coach. There was one man on Harlan’s side, on the same level as the stage, using a rifle.
Nash wondered how long it would be before Dodd started shooting at the horses. Then there would be one hell of a pile-up and there wouldn’t be anything much that he could do to prevent himself being injured. Likely he would be in no shape to protect the eagle any longer and Dodd would simply walk in, kill those who had survived the crash and pick up the satchel with the statue in it and ride off laughing.
Well, that damn statue had to be his first concern. There could be no argument about that.
“Can you nail that rider on your side?” Nash yelled at the doctor.
“Not with this damn thing,” the medic shouted, shaking the woman’s cheap six-gun.
Nash crawled over the girl and squeezed in beside Harlan, dragging his satchel along the seat behind him.
“I’ve got to make a jump for it,” Nash said, nodding his head towards the satchel. “What they’re after is in here. If you can keep ’em busy on the other side while I take care of this hombre and then jump when we draw level with that brush, we might get away with it. Jack can slow down and let them overtake after I’ve had some time in the brush. I’ll gain more time while they check the sides of the trail.”
“But you’ll be on foot,” the medic protested.
“Can’t be helped. I know my way around the wilderness. I reckon I can make it. But don’t try to be a hero: tell ’em whatever they want to know, otherwise Dodd’ll start gettin’ nasty.”
Nash suddenly brought up his Colt and laid the barrel across his left forearm. He beaded the rider swinging in, then dropped hammer. The Colt jumped and the rider’s mount crashed, throwing the man violently over its head. The man slammed onto the trail with a thud.
Nash ducked as the coach was suddenly filled with streaking lead. The girl gasped, jerked and spun over onto her back. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open, as a hand clawed at a spreading patch of red between her breasts. He glanced briefly at Harlan and saw in the medic’s eyes that there was no hope for Lucy Briggs.
There was a yell from up top and a body crashed past the window and thudded to the trail on Nash’s side. He looked out. Chip’s body was rolling and bouncing in the dust, lifeless. Jack was still sending the team thundering up the trail as Nash grabbed the satchel.
“I’m droppin’ off. Too bad about the gal. Soon’s I’m gone, yell up to the driver. He’ll know what to do. And many thanks for sidin’ me, Harlan. Adios.”
“Hasta luego,” the medic replied.
Nash sobered. He doubted that they would see each other again.
Then he unlatched the door and pushed it open. Brush hit the panels and almost tore it out of his hand. The greenery was a blur but he saw that it fell away in a steep slope. He was going to bounce badly on that flying ground but there was no other way.
Taking a firmer grip on the satchel and holstering his smoking Colt, Nash kicked out against the floor and hurled himself away from the body of the coach. The door swung shut because of the forward motion and Harlan grabbed it to make sure it clicked solidly.
Nash somersaulted in mid-air and landed on his back among the brush several feet from the coach. The dust boiling up from under the wheels was sufficient to screen him from the pursuing outlaws. The brush cracked and gave way beneath his weight. Branches ripped at his clothes and his flesh and he flung an arm across his face, but, too late, splintered twigs gashed his flesh and his hat spun away. His gunrig snagged on a thicker branch and he was brought up sharply, the belt almost cutting him in two. Then the wood snapped and he continued to plunge.
His breath gusted from him as he hit solid ground and then the slope took over, bouncing him up and tilting him forward. He began to roll, crashing and smashing through brush that, even while it cushioned his fall, still tore and stabbed and prodded at his body. Some of the heavier branches acted as springs and flung him violently from one bush to another.
And then the slope ended as he spilled off a dense clump of brush and saw rocks in an area that was more open. He knew that the cushioning was over. When he hit, he knew it would be hard.
Nash was right. But he was lucky in one respect: he landed feet first. Even so, he hit with such force that his legs simply folded under him and his knees skidded among the gravel, tearing his trousers and flinging him face forward. His hands went out and he skidded, his palms being hacked up by the gravel. Then his jaw struck a rock a glancing blow and lights exploded behind his eyes as he felt his body wrenching and twisting violently.
Nash rolled to a halt but it seemed a long time before his senses settled to an even keel. He pushed his raw palms against the ground and shook his head as he began to rise. A few spots of blood from a cut fell onto the stones between his hands. His jaw felt about twice its normal size and his vision was still a mite blurred.
Gunfire filtered through his reeling senses and he snapped his head up to see the dust beginning to settle on the trail immediately above.
He had to turn his head to the right for a long way before he picked up the stage. Jack must have been driving it like a maniac, for it was far along the trail and higher up the slope than Nash would have expected. He could see a couple of the raiders pursuing the coach as it rocked and swayed crazily around a bend. The outlaws thundered after it, still shooting.
Nash staggered to his feet and looked about for the satchel. It was lying about five yards away. He stumbled towards it and stooped gingerly to pick it up, making sure his Colt was firm in its holster. He glanced up at the trail. Obviously, Dodd and his men hadn’t seen him drop off the stage. He wondered just how far Jack would lead them before slowing down and allowing them to overtake him.
The gradually increasing grade would slow the stage, anyway, so he couldn’t bank on having too much time before the outlaws found out he was missing and started their search for him. Once they spotted those bushes with the broken branches, they would know where he had jumped.
So he figured he had better get moving at once. Holding the satchel, he looked around and spotted some thick timber across a gulch. That was the obvious place for him to make for. He would have liked to have hidden out among the brush, hoping that Dodd would naturally ride straight for the stand of timber, but being afoot, he couldn’t risk it.
No, it would have to be the woods. With a little luck, he ought to be able to outsmart them and might even be able to pick up a horse.
Nash staggered down the remainder of the slope, his legs weak and rubbery under him.