Moran figured if he didn’t get to a proper doctor within the next couple of days he might be past the point of ever needing one again.
He had dropped a long way behind Dodd and the others during the raid on the stage, but he pushed on doggedly. He knew he had to be within sight of the coach when Dodd finally ran it to ground and grabbed the golden eagle from Nash. If he weren’t, he knew the others would cut him out of his share.
There was no such thing as honor among thieves, Moran decided: leastways, not with Will Dodd’s bunch. They were all out for themselves. He recalled that none of them had wanted to give Griffin any kind of a bonus for his work in finding out about the decoy run that had ended in the massacre at High Hat. Sure, it had turned out to be wrong, but they hadn’t known that at the time Dodd had suggested the bonus for Griffin. Of course, Moran was as guilty as the others: he hadn’t voted on Griffin’s behalf, either. But, it just went to show what kind of men they were.
He was feeling miserable because of his wound, and just a mite sorry for himself. The gash hadn’t seemed too serious when he had been gunned down by the guard, but it had soon shown signs of infection and had begun to weep pus as well as blood. He couldn’t seem to close it off. It was purple and reddened and there was a swelling under his left arm.
Moran was so wrapped in his own condition that he didn’t realize his horse had slowed—or maybe he had slowed it down himself so that it eased some of the jarring pain. But he lifted his head suddenly and saw that the horse was only moving at walking pace. He became apprehensive and he looked around swiftly. The trail up ahead was empty. There was a suggestion of dust haze hanging in the air, but there was no sign of the stage or Dodd and the other outlaws. He glanced back and saw Dixie’s dead horse but there was no sign of the man himself. All he was aware of was the sound of distant gunfire up ahead and around a bend. Moran cursed. They must be closing with the stage, he thought. He had to get there and put in an appearance.
He kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks and groaned aloud as the animal lurched forward and pain knifed through his body. He gripped the reins tighter and clamped his knees against the saddle as the horse settled to a steady trot. He rode past the spot where Nash had jumped from the coach, glancing at the brush with the broken branches but not thinking anything about it.
But, before the horse had ridden another five yards or so, Moran hauled rein and the horse stopped and shook itself, snorting angrily at the stop-start instructions from its rider. Moran frowned and wiped the back of his hand across his sweating, dust-caked forehead.
He stared back at the brush with the fresh-broken branches and twigs. It had filtered through his consciousness that it should be investigated. He turned the horse and walked it back slowly along the edge of the trail.
Something had been thrown from the speeding stage, he figured. His heart lurched as he thought that he might even find the golden eagle in its container, but then he shook his head. The swathe was too wide for that. It was more like that made by a man’s hurtling body.
Sitting his mount just above where the broken branches began, Moran could see the marks of the violent passage down to where the brush thinned out onto rock and earth. There was a hat caught up in a bush not far from the bottom and the sun glinted from a silver concha in the shape of a longhorn’s head on the plaited leather band.
Forgetting his pain and fever, he ran his gaze over the area. Suddenly, rising excitement began to make him tremble. Yes! By hell, he could even see tracks in the dirt, where someone had slid into the gulch. His gaze travelled upwards and lifted over the far side of the gulch to where the thick stand of timber began.
Moran grinned tightly.
From his high position, he could see into the timber stand, where the edges were thinner. There was a man staggering through the trees, lugging a valise of some kind. Although he had never seen the man before, Moran knew it had to be Clay Nash.
He slid the rifle from its saddle scabbard and, teeth bared against the expected jolting pain, he put the mount slowly down the slope, forcing a fresh path through the brush.
Hell, with a little luck, while the rest of the bunch were still chasing the stage, he could nail Nash and pick up the golden statue for himself and be long gone before Dodd and the others realized it.
It was sure an ill wind that blew nobody any good, he figured.
Doc Harlan was still putting up a pretty good show, in spite of the cheap Colt. He reckoned he couldn’t hit a barn door at ten feet the way it threw lead around. But it made a noise and it was .45 caliber, so he had plenty of reloads for it that he could take from his bullet belt.
He fired out alternate windows, sometimes two fast shots out the left hand one before throwing himself along the seat to blast another shot out the right hand one. It would, he hoped, make the pursuing outlaws figure that Nash was still aboard and shooting hard. The woman’s body rolled about on the floor of the stage and he was sorry that he had been unable to do anything for her.
Despite the danger, Harlan was enjoying himself. He liked a good gunfight and plenty of excitement, which was why he had chosen to start frontier medicine among the mines of Colorado. It was a rough, tough life, and some of the miners had actually figured they were being ‘soft’ by allowing a medic to set their broken bones or to sew up their gashed flesh. He had had to bust a few heads before they respected him. Finally, they reasoned there was nothing wrong with letting a man who seemed as tough as they were attend them. But, during some arguments, some of the hardcase types wouldn’t let him near a man who had been gunshot.
So, he had learned how to use a gun and had taken on some of the hard hombres at their own game, killing a couple, wounding others, but mainly showing that he could handle a Colt almost as expertly as he could a scalpel. From then on, he had been able to combine adventure and medicine, roving the frontier, and occasionally having to force his ideas on a community that was too ignorant to see any benefit in his health education.
He had never seen Nash before but had heard plenty about the man. There hadn’t been any time for the Wells Fargo agent to tell the medic the full story about the statue, but it was sufficient for Harlan to know that Dodd and his bunch were outlaws and killers and had to be held at bay while Nash made his escape. He was willing to go along with that and risk his neck.
Then he heard a yell from up above and there was a sudden high-pitched squeal from the horses an instant before the stage seemed to slam into something as solid as a wall. It lifted then tilted and Harlan grabbed out for support as the whole stage began to roll and he knew they were going no farther.
He didn't know that Dodd had brought down one of the lead horses and that the rest had floundered over its body and that the coach had crashed into the fallen pile of horseflesh. It rode up and over one thrashing animal before it tilted, throwing the driver twenty feet through the air. The stage bounced and rolled and skidded and wood splintered as it smashed into a rock.
Dodd and Talman were the first to dismount; Talman was anxious about his sister’s safety. He swore when he ripped open the splintered door and saw her bloody body jammed between the seats. Harlan was sitting up, dazed, his head gashed and one arm twisted at an unnatural angle. He cried out in pain as Talman dragged him out bodily, then Talman turned a puzzled face to Dodd.
“Ain’t no one in here but Lucy and this hombre. Nash’s gone!”
Dodd rounded on Harlan and backhanded him across the face. The doctor fell to his knees and Dodd pushed his gun barrel against Harlan’s temple.
“Where’s Nash?” he gritted.
Harlan tried to make out he was too dazed to speak but Dodd was in no mood for playing games. He hit the man with the gun barrel and sent him sprawling full length in the dust.
“I’ll break every bone in your body if I have to,” Dodd snarled. “One more time: what happened to Nash?”
“Jumped,” Harlan said, spitting blood and a broken tooth. “Way back.”
Dodd swore and glanced at his men; they all knew the doctor spoke the truth. There was nothing else that could have happened to Nash.
“Okay,” Dodd gritted. “Only thing now is where?”
He grabbed the medic’s hair and yanked his head back, pushing his Colt’s barrel against the man’s right eye.
“And I’m fast runnin’ out of patience, mister,” Dodd gritted.
Nash knew the heavy statue was going to slow him down, the satchel swinging and banging against his leg as he stumbled on through the trees.
Being afoot, he knew he likely wouldn’t be able to outrun Dodd and his men by the time they came back searching for his trail, but, unencumbered, he might be able to hide out long enough for Santa Fe to send some help down the trail when the stage either didn’t turn up on schedule or Harlan or Jack managed to stagger into some ranch and raise the alarm.
There was only one thing to do, he decided, and that was to bury the eagle.
It would have to be done carefully and he would have to take exact bearings so that it could be found again. He chuckled briefly as he thought of the hell that would be raised if he were unable to locate the spot again. Hell, he would have achieved just what Dodd was trying to do, if that happened: make Wells Fargo the laughing stock of the country.
It was a grim sort of joke but it could happen and so, staggering through the trees, aware that the gunfire had faded completely, he stumbled into a clearing and looked around. There was a creek tumbling down the hillside over a small rocky drop comprising rounded stones and turf with a few old branches and twigs jammed up among it. The water frothed and gurgled and when he knelt and plunged his face into it, it was cold enough to snatch his breath. Face tingling, he sat back on his hands and looked around for somewhere to stash the eagle.
There were stumps of trees that had long ago been blown down; boulders in clumps; the soft earth of the creek bank; even a ready-made water-rat’s hole. But the places were mighty obvious to anyone who was looking for a cache in the general area and he knew he had to find something better.
He scooped up another cupped handful of water and drank. Then he looked at the cascade. The water tumbled over a flat rock almost as big as the satchel and dropped into a frothing pool, before boiling over and continuing on its drop into the stream proper. He knelt and looked in under the big flat rock.
Nash grinned, not noticing the brief pain as one of the cuts split open and a bead of blood dribbled onto his chin. There was a good dark hollow in the wet turf and he grabbed one of the waterlogged sticks jammed between the rocks and poked about. It was a ready-made hiding place.
He hurriedly opened the satchel and unlocked the central compartment with the special keys, taking out the eagle wrapped in its velvet and oilcloth. He rammed it back under the flat rock, pushing it hard into the yielding dampness of the turf. Then he reached down into the frothing pool and brought up three fist-sized rocks from the bottom and jammed them in front of the statue, sealing off the hollow. He wedged a little turf in between the rocks and, drenched to the shoulders, he sat back, satisfied with his work.
Nash placed a rounded rock in the central compartment of the satchel and relocked it. It was nowhere near as heavy as the statue, but if the pursuit got close enough to see him still carrying the satchel, they wouldn’t get any ideas about him having disposed of the eagle. He looked around for landmarks but realized he didn’t need any. It was the only cascade in that stretch of creek and if he lined it up with the bald-headed rock and the trail above, he would have no trouble finding it again.
Suddenly, Moran came out of the trees, a rifle in his hand. “Freeze, Nash,” he snapped, walking his mount slowly forward. He bared his teeth in a tight grin, the lines of pain obvious on his grayish face. “Ain’t no use lookin’ behind me. The others ain’t here. Which makes you lucky. Mebbe. All I want is the satchel. But first you drop your gun.”
Clay Nash hesitated and the rifle barrel moved threateningly. He swore silently and eased the Colt out of its holster and let it drop to the creek bank.
“Step away from it,” Moran ordered as he swayed in the saddle. Nash saw the blood on his side and knew the man was close to passing out.
“I reckon I’ll take the statue and never mind the satchel. You get it out, real slow, mister, and bring it across and put it in my saddlebag. I’ll have this here rifle trained on you all the time.”
“Listen, that’s bound for the governor himself,” Nash protested. “You’re makin’ one hell of a heap of trouble for yourself.”
Moran laughed. “You reckon? Dodd’s gonna get the blame for it, not me. Now, get it out. Careful.”
But the outlaw forced himself upright and jerked the rifle barrel again.
Nash hesitated then knelt beside the satchel unlocking it. He dropped the keys and as he reached to pick them up he slid his hand in through the slit in the outside compartment and wrenched the derringer from its clip. He hurled himself backwards as it came free, snapping it up and triggering the first barrel. The sharp crack of the little gun was lost in the whiplash of Moran’s rifle. The satchel jerked as the lead punched through it and Moran swayed in the saddle.
Nash swiveled the barrel and triggered again as the wounded outlaw tried to lever his rifle. The second shot took Moran through the head and he rolled back over the rump of his plunging horse, dropping his rifle. Nash leapt up and lunged for the animal’s flying reins, just managing to grab them. He was pulled off his feet but he hung on and his weight hauled the terrified animal to a halt.
He pulled himself upright hand over hand and gripped the bit close to the animal’s mouth, speaking quietly and soothingly to it as he looked at Moran’s body. The man would give him no more trouble, but that rifle shot would have been heard by the other outlaws. In fact, its echoes were still sounding through the ranges.
Nash picked up the rifle and slid it into its scabbard, led the horse over to the satchel and scooped it up. He hung it from the saddlehorn: as long as he kept it with him, the outlaws would pursue him, convinced that he was still carrying the statue. He grabbed his Colt, rammed it into his holster and swung into leather.
Glancing towards the high trail he caught a glimpse of dust rising. Yes, they had heard the gunfire, all right, and were coming to investigate. In no time at all, they would find the broken brush and the swathe his body had cut through it during his wild fall.
Nash spun the animal, jammed in his heels and ran it for the narrowest part of the creek, downstream from the cascade. As the horse stretched out and leapt across the creek, Nash glanced towards the cascade. It looked completely natural.
Anyway, his tracks were plain and these were all that Dodd would look for. He would have no reason to stop by the cascade but would come straight across the creek in hot pursuit, intent on running Nash to ground.