For some time, Clay Nash had felt a little uneasy whenever he was around the Poisoner. The cook was surly, but he’d put it down to the man’s depression over the Kid.
Nash, always a man who was sensitive to people’s attitudes towards him, got the impression that the cook was decidedly hostile towards him.
There were a couple of occasions when he could have bought into a fight with the rawboned trail cook but he’d let them slide, in deference to what he figured was the Poisoner’s grief.
But suddenly he wasn’t so sure.
The man seemed to be deliberately giving Nash the worst of the grub and either smaller quantities than the other hands or else so much was piled up on his platter that it spilled over the edges. His coffee was either too bitter or too sweet.
There had been a rainstorm, brief but heavy, and Poison Pete had had hot biscuits and coffee ready for everyone when they got back to camp as usual. But he’d managed to leave Clay’s serve until the last and then had ‘tripped’ and spilled the biscuits into the mud. Deadpan, he’d looked at Nash and shrugged.
“You’re gettin’ kind of clumsy, Poison,” Nash said grimly.
“Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it,” Pete replied.
Nash started to bristle for it came at the end of a long line of incidents—but then Largo Dunn had strolled casually between the two men and thrust a biscuit into Clay’s hand.
“Have one of mine. I ain’t hungry,” the trail boss said gruffly. Then he turned swiftly to the cook. “An’ Cookie, you’d best get yourself more rest. You’re staggerin’ all over the place, keepin’ the long hours you do. You should’ve let me hire you an off-sider to replace the Kid.”
“No,” Pete snapped, his eyes blazing angrily. “No one can replace that boy.” He glared past the trail boss at Nash and the Wells Fargo man began to realize that the cook was somehow blaming him for the Kid’s death. “He ... he worked his tail off. For all of you. Least I can do is handle his chores as well as my own.”
“Don’t see your logic, Pete,” Largo said reasonably.
“Don’t have to. Just—just let me be. All of you. Now get the hell away from my fire an’ let me get on with my chores.”
The men shuffled away to change into dry clothes, muttering.
Pecos Smith seemed worried and tried to talk with the man but Pete apparently wouldn’t listen, slapped Pecos’ friendly arm away from his shoulders and raised his metal ladle in a threatening gesture.
Pecos jumped back hurriedly, dropping a hand to his gun butt. It was the first time Nash had seen the prankster cowboy really angry—and was surprised to see murder in his face ...
Then Pecos dragged down a deep breath, let it hiss out between his teeth, then straightened slowly and stomped away.
Nash watched the cook warily after the incident. He took note, too, of how the Poisoner treated the other trail hands. Nothing seemed to have changed there, except that the cook didn’t exchange the usual banter. If a man complained about his grub, the cook merely took back his platter and tipped the food out on the ground, then, with a challenging look, handed the man back the empty plate. There were few complaints.
But Nash saw his relationship with Poison Pete deteriorating rapidly and had a hunch it was going to end in trouble. He was beginning to think he should have it out with him. It was time for some straight talking ...
As it happened, it was taken out of his hands.
It was just before supper when the men were in from the long day’s drive. They were washing-up at the edge of the stream where the herd was being bedded down. Nash was stripped to the waist, and he sluiced stream water over his torso and through his hair to get rid of some of the dust he had eaten in the course of the day. He stood up and reached for his shirt to dry himself and, when he turned, he cannoned into the Poisoner, standing only a couple of feet behind him.
“What the hell,” Nash said, startled.
The cook was angry, and his mouth was pulled into a tight line.
The others stopped their joshing and splashing as they realized the confrontation between the two men had arrived. Pecos Smith hurried across.
“Hey, Poison, what’s that I smell a’cookin’, feller? Dumplin’ Dan reckons it’s stew, but Slim and Hog say that lame ol’ geldin’ from the remuda’s missin’, so I …”
“Shut up, Pecos,” the cook said quietly, coldly, not taking his eyes off Nash. Smith swallowed the rest of his joking words, and looked worried. Pete placed a stiffened forefinger against Clay’s wet chest. “You killed the Kid,” he breathed.
“What kind of fool talk is that?” Nash snapped. “He got caught in the stampede.”
“Set off by you.”
“No. I tried to get the drop on McPhee and Brandon and their pards so there’d be no shootin’ ...”
“But there was shootin’. An’ the beeves stampeded an’ that poor little kid was stomped into—into a piece of—raw meat.”
“Easy, Pete,” Nash said quietly. “It just happened. There was nothing I could do once they started shooting.”
“That kid,” the cook continued with a break in his voice. “That kid left a widder-woman mother with five other brats, all younger’n him, to rear. No man to help her on her hard-dirt farm. Nothin’ but the Kid’s pay to look forward to. Largo give her half when the Kid joined us an’ the Kid would’ve sent her the rest when we hit Freedom—’ceptin’ now he’s dead.”
“We’ll all chip-in, Pete, we told you that,” said Pecos Smith, trying to head off the trouble he saw brewing.
The Poisoner ignored him. He was shaking with pent-up emotion and grief. “I ... I was like that kid myself, years ago. Run off to help a trail cook with a big herd goin’ up the Chisholm. I grew into a man there with the help of that old cook an’ the men I rode with. I ... I aimed to look after the Kid’s education that way an’ now ... now he’s gone. Because of some lousy, sneakin’, low-down badge-toter like you.”
Nash stiffened, aware of the even deeper silence that had hit the camp at the cook’s words.
“Badge-toter? What the hell you talkin’ about?”
Pecos Smith forced a laugh. “Hey, Poison, you got your wires crossed, ain’t you, man?”
“We know you’re a Wells Fargo man, mister. We ain’t dumb,” the cook breathed.
“You got me mixed up with someone else, Pete,” Nash said quietly.
“Liar.” the Poisoner snapped.
Largo Dunn came running across the camp from the remuda. He could see trouble exploding in the camp. Already the cowpokes were lining up on the stream bank, urging on the two men. They wanted to see a good fight to break the monotony.
“Poison,” Nash barked, “you got a load of grief and it’s stoppin’ you from thinkin’ straight. So I’ll forget you called me a liar. Just go set down an’ drink a bottle of redeye an’ sleep it outta your system, feller. I don’t aim to get into a brawl with you.”
But Nash had no choice.
The cook had been spoiling for a fight and he didn’t mean to let the chance pass. As Nash made to step around him, Poison Pete shoved him—and the Wells Fargo man was knocked into the shallows. The cowpokes laughed and urged him to get up and fight.
Nash figured if there were a fight, it might get their minds off the accusation about him being a Wells Fargo agent. But he wanted to know how Poison Pete had got that information—and just what it meant to the man.
These thoughts raced through his brain as he thrust up out of the stream, flung his sodden shirt into the cook’s face as the man lunged towards him, with fists hammering.
Pete clawed at the garment and Nash hit him in the midriff, doubling him over. He brought up his knee, and the cook flew backwards, spread-eagled on the slightly sloping bank.
The men were cheering and Largo started in to break it up but Pecos Smith shook his head, indicating that the men were enjoying it and shouting that it would maybe get the gall out of the cook’s spleen.
Pete flung a handful of mud into Clay’s eyes and was thrusting up. Then he kicked at his legs and the Wells Fargo man went down to one knee, still trying to get the mud out of his eyes. The trail cook kicked him in the side, clubbed a fist and hit Nash on the back of the neck. He kicked at Clay’s supporting arm and the undercover man went down with a grunt. Poison Pete stomped at his head, missed by a whisker, although his boot heel grazed Clay’s face and opened a gash in his cheek.
Clay rolled away and, gasping for breath, then staggered to his feet. The cook launched himself headlong, his shoulder ramming into Clay’s stomach—the impetus carrying both men into the stream.
The cowboys crowded the bank, yelling, throwing punches into the air, and jostling each other with excitement. The two combatants reared up out of a flurry of water and mud, their fists sledging and hammering. Clay’s body showed numerous red marks where the cook’s fists had landed. Blood ran from the gash in his cheek and one eye was swelling.
Clay ducked as a punch came at his face and it slid over his left shoulder. He came up inside the cook’s guard, and rammed his head into the man’s face.
Poison Pete’s head snapped back and he stopped with a grunt as blood flowed from mouth and nostrils. Nash hammered at his mid-section, mauling the ribs, his blows ripping the man’s shirt.
He turned a shoulder as the cook planted his feet and made his stand. A blow whizzed past his eyes and he spun back, driving an elbow point upwards into the other’s chest, just above the arch of the ribs.
Pete gasped and his face went gray as Nash followed with a heavy blow to the same spot.
Nash cocked his fist for the finishing blow but Poison Pete had recovered and launched himself forward with a yell, catching the Wells Fargo man off balance. Once again there was a flurry of mud and water as they rolled over and over in the shallows. Pete came uppermost and straddled Clay’s chest. He locked his fingers around the other’s windpipe and began to squeeze, wrenching Nash up and down, alternately trying to drown and choke him.
Nash couldn’t get a breath. He bucked and squirmed, but he was fighting by pure instinct. His blows lacked power as he rained them on the cook’s shoulders and he tried to stab at the man’s eyes with pronged fingers but the trail cook was wise in rough-house brawling and kept his head well down.
Nash heard the thunderous roaring increasing in his ears. There was a red curtain, shot through with brilliant streaks of light dropping over his vision. His chest felt as if it were being crushed under a horse’s weight, pinning him to the ground. Water filled his mouth and nostrils and his arms flailed weakly.
Through the pain and fighting to preserve his life, Nash realized he was dying. The cook had landed in a lucky position and he wasn’t going to let go until he had squeezed the life out of him ...
Largo started forward when he saw that the fight was getting out of hand and even the cowboys had quietened.
“Stop it, boss,” Hog Monaghan yelled. “There’s gonna be murder done, otherwise.”
Pecos snatched at Largo’s arm, but the trail boss pulled free and plunged into the water. He grabbed the cook’s long, greasy hair and yanked his head back sharply. His clubbed fist drove down violently and hit the man between the eyes. The cook shuddered but he refused to release his grip.
Largo swiftly drew his Colt and laid the barrel across the side of Pete’s head and he sprawled sideways into the shallows.
While some of the men pulled him out onto the bank, Largo helped the groggy Nash to a sitting position.
The Wells Fargo man sat in the muddy shallows, gagging and holding his throat. It was several minutes before he could speak. He crawled onto the bank and sat there, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on them, and his head hanging. The trail cook had been carried back to the camp and dumped in the back of the chuck wagon. Largo, Pecos and a couple of cowboys stayed with Nash.
“You comin’ good?” Largo asked.
Nash rubbed his bruised throat. “Madman,” he croaked.
“Din’ realize he felt so strongly about the Kid. Mebbe he’ll be better now. Might’ve worked it out of his spleen.”
“On me.”
Pecos Smith squatted beside him with a puzzled frown.
“What was that about you bein’ with Wells Fargo?”
“Dunno. Some loco idea he got. Dunno how. ’Less it was me mentioning that Wells Fargo hold-up where the Mex got killed and I got myself into some trouble over it. Mebbe he got that all twisted up.”
“Yeah, mebbe,” Largo said, not sounding convinced. “You’re sayin’ he was wrong, of course.”
“Well, ’course I am,” grated Nash, wincing. “Hell, I’m just a drifter.”
“A tough one,” Largo allowed. “Took a tough man to go after McPhee into the Cortes Breaks and come out alive.”
“Well, I owed it to the Kid,” Nash said, then frowned. “You’d think Pete would’ve remembered that, wouldn’t you? That I went after McPhee because of him causin’ the stampede that killed the Kid.”
“Mebbe he figured you went after him for some other reason,” Pecos suggested quietly.
“Like what?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Hey, boss,” Hog Monaghan called from the chuck wagon. “The Poisoner’s comin’ round. You wanna sort of be on hand ...?”
Largo nodded, glanced at Nash, then walked towards the main camp with the other cowboys. Pecos Smith stayed to help Nash onto his feet. The Wells Fargo man shook his hands off.
“I’m all right,” he rasped, staggering a little.
“Sure. For now. But wonder how the Poisoner’s gonna feel when he comes round properly? You could be in a heap of trouble, amigo.”
As Nash stumbled his way back towards the main camp, he wondered if he were imagining there was more to Pecos’ warning than appeared on the surface ...
By mid morning, Johnny Marks was barely holding his own in the surgery at Spanish Springs. Jim Hume paced the floor of the waiting room impatiently.
He’d hoped to be able to question the killer right after he’d shot the man, but shock had set in and Marks had sunk into unconsciousness. The doctor had operated and removed the three bullets, and had told the Wells Fargo Chief of Detectives that he didn’t think the man would last more than a few hours.
“I’ve got to question him, Doc,” Hume had said tightly.
The medico had merely shrugged. “I’ve done all I can. You’ll have to wait and see if he regains consciousness. He may just slip away without coming to.”
Hume had waited the long hours alone in the room, although Merida Gomez had twice come down and pleaded with him to go back to her house for a meal. But Hume stubbornly refused, wanting to be on hand the moment Johnny Marks opened his eyes. He stayed awake on the strong coffee that the doctor’s wife prepared for him.
Then, around ten thirty in the morning, the weary medico looked in and, catching Hume’s eye, nodded slowly. “He’s conscious.”
Hume pushed past the doctor and into the room where Marks lay in the narrow bed. As he heard Hume stomping in, his eyes fluttered open. He looked twenty years older—gaunt lines of pain having drawn down the corners of his mouth. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes deep-set in dark sockets. His breathing was ragged and gasping.
“He hasn’t got long,” the doctor whispered as the detective sat beside the bed.
“Papers on you say your name’s John Marks,” Hume said in his deep voice. “That right?”
The wounded man didn’t move or speak at first then, just as Hume started to ask again, he nodded his head very slightly.
“What you do? Besides try to shoot down women.”
Again Marks was a long time in answering. “Wr ... wrangler,” he gasped.
“Wrangler? With hosses?”
Marks nodded. Then Hume stiffened.
“By hell, you with Largo Dunn’s trail herd?”
Again Marks nodded.
“Uh huh. One of the hombres who held-up that stage and murdered Gomez. Right?”
Marks gave no indication he had heard and Hume went on swiftly, afraid the man was slipping away.
“You and your two pards joined the trail herd in Cougar Bluffs, right? Aimed to use it as cover to get away up to Freedom ... or wherever you wanted to go.” Hume paused. “What made you come back?”
Marks coughed, and the doctor reached over Hume’s shoulder and wiped away the trickle of dark liquid that oozed from his mouth. He was fighting for breath and the medic shook his head dolefully. Hume gripped the man’s shoulder.
“Marks. Why’d you come back here to kill the girl?”
The dying man gargled. “Y-yeah. Kill ... kill gal ... I figured the ... the Mex might ... left copies of the ... papers. Had to make sure. Th ... they figured I was the ... the best one to ... come.”
“Who?” Hume rasped. “Who figured it, Marks? Who were your pards?”
The man said nothing for so long and his breathing became so quiet that Hume and the doctor thought the man was rapidly slipping into the coma that would precede death. Then Johnny Marks spoke, without opening his eyes, quite clearly—just as Hume was preparing to leave.
“The Poisoner ... and Pecos. We pulled that stage job. Just to nail the Mex. But we got to keep the money, ’specially the double eagles from the strong box.”
Hume and the doctor were surprised to see Marks’ lips move in a faint smile. The man coughed but the spasm swiftly passed and he continued, clearly, although his voice was obviously weakening.
“Threw ... your man on that ...”
“My man?” Hume asked. “Clay Nash? He’s been spotted?”
“Hell ... we ... we suspected him right off. Good trail hand but somethin’ tough ... deadly about him. Got the look of a lawman more’n a ... gunfighter. Just guessed, but we played it safe an’ ... an’ gave him a bum steer so’s he’d go after McPhee. Tried to nail him in the foothills of the Cortes Breaks, but he was too fast for me. Back at camp, they figured I’d ... better … better make sure them papers we took off the Mex were the only ones. He ...he sent me back here to ... kill the gal to be ... sure she didn’t take up where her ol’ man left off ...”
“Who sent you? Pecos? This Poisoner feller? Which one’s the leader? Marks?”
The man went into a fit of coughing and his head rolled on the pillow, his body convulsing. The doctor hurried to him but there was nothing he could do. Marks was rapidly dying, the effort of talking having weakened him considerably.
“Who?” Hume cried, leaning over the man. “Who sent you, damn it?”
The man got out the name with his last, dying breath.
“Largo.”