The chestnut was almost dead on its feet when Nash rode the animal into Baptism Springs. He wasn’t exactly feeling too well himself.
There were long hard trails behind him and he was looking forward to some leave when he got back to Denver. But first he had to return the stolen agency money to Grant Tibbs and get a receipt for it. Afterwards, he would likely sell the chestnut and then board the train to Denver. It wouldn’t be a straight run, of course. The Baptism Springs train was only a feeder, running along a spur track to join up with the main Denver and Rio Grande Railroad at Prairie Mound.
He looked around the mean street as the deep shadows crawled across from the ramshackle buildings; the sun was going out in a blaze of crimson and gold that evening. Baptism Springs wasn’t much of a place. Nash wondered how much longer Wells Fargo would keep an agency operating there. The stage run was finished; it had been for six months, ever since the railroad had completed the spur track from Prairie Mound. But the agency operated mostly as an express forwarding unit, bonding goods and moneys in the green, iron-bound boxes of the company and shipping them on trains to Denver and points south.
Grant Tibbs had run the agency when the stage was still operating and he was said to be bitter about being left there on his own. It was a very small agency, for there wasn’t a lot of business, and Tibbs found it mighty boring at times. Still, he wasn’t doing so badly. The company had cut his pay but it hadn’t been as big as it might have been and Tibbs was at least grateful for that much. However, he wasn’t showing much gratitude when Nash stomped wearily into his small office and dumped the moneybags onto his cluttered desk.
Tibbs was a lean man, just under six feet, rawboned, and had a look of the outdoors to him that didn’t really go with his job. Once he had been a company driver and had worked his way through shotgun guard to agency clerk and finally, Wells Fargo agent in that part of the Rockies. It was quite a senior position and, in the heyday of the stagecoaches, he had had a staff of nine. In his thirties and seeing himself at a dead end, his grim face made him look a lot older and there was a narrowing of his pale amber eyes that puzzled Nash: it was almost as if the man were antagonistic to him.
And yet he was returning the company’s stolen goods.
Nash understood right away. That was the trouble. Grant had been responsible for the money and it had been stolen from his agency. Now Nash was bringing it back: it would be another mark against him on his company record.
“Check it through, Grant, and see if it’s all there,” Nash said, too weary to worry about Tibbs’ feelings one way or another. The man could be as bitter as hell for all Nash cared. He just wanted a bath, a shave, a haircut—and a nice long sleep.
“What about the robbers?” Tibbs asked, making no move to reach for the bags.
“Dead.”
The agent’s eyebrows arched.
“Both of ’em?”
“Yeah, both of ’em. You gonna count that? I’m beat.”
Grant Tibbs stirred in his chair and reached for the bags.
“Yeah, sure. Take the weight off your feet, Nash. You been gone a couple of weeks. Hard trail, I guess.”
Nash nodded as Tibbs started counting, dropped into a chair and stretched out his long legs as he pulled the makings from his shirt pocket. There was just about enough tobacco for a single cigarette and his fingers were stiff and clumsy as he twisted up a lumpy smoke and lit it with his last vesta.
By that time Grant had finished counting and he pulled a ledger towards him, flicked it open to a marked page and checked some figures. He looked up.
“About fifty bucks missin’, but that’d be near enough. Either got lost during the robbery or they spent it someplace. Bribin’ a rancher to get ’em food or fresh horses, you know …”
Nash nodded. “Okay. Give me a receipt and fill out the report form and I’ll sign it.”
“There bounties on Hollis and Slocum?” Tibbs asked as he wrote.
Nash snapped his gaze up and stared hard at the agent. Tibbs went on writing for a few seconds and then his pen slowed and he looked up, frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“How’d you know the names?”
Tibbs stiffened. He frowned more deeply.
“What names?”
“Hollis and Slocum.”
The man looked perplexed but Nash thought he saw a hint of wariness there, too.
“Didn’t you ...?”
Nash shook his head emphatically.
After a spell, Tibbs shrugged. “I dunno then. Someone told me. Someone mentioned the names—Hollis and Slocum. It could’ve been someone in town who saw them ridin’ out. They’d lost their masks by that time, I hear. I thought it was you?”
“Not me. And no one mentioned their names to me when I came here. It was only after I got close enough to trade lead that I recognized ’em.”
Tibbs shrugged again. “Well, I sure dunno, but for a couple of weeks I’ve been thinkin’ of ’em as Hollis and Slocum. I guess that was them?”
Nash nodded slowly, staring at the agent through the cigarette smoke.
“Yeah. Couple of Texan hell raisers. We’ve had a file on ’em in Denver for a long time. I’ve read it. Which is why I couldn’t figure why they were running into the mountains instead of making a clear run down to the Rio. Mexico seems more like their kinda place than the Rockies.”
“Just tryin’ to shake you, I guess,” Tibbs said, starting to fill out the report form again.
“Nope. I said I couldn’t figure out why they were headed that way. But I know now.”
Tibbs snapped his head up. His eyes flicked and then he sat back in his chair and gave Nash a somewhat cold look.
“Listen, Nash, I dunno what you’re gettin’ at. But I don’t like the way you’re kinda hintin’ around about things. I wish you’d just come right out and say somethin’ if you’ve got anythin’ to say to me.”
Nash returned the stare, leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray at the edge of the desk. He yawned and scrubbed a hand down his stubbled face.
“Aw, I dunno that I’m trying to say anythin’ in particular, Tibbs. Just talkin’; thinkin’ aloud, I guess, about some of the things that puzzle me. Too damn weary to get into any kind of a hassle.”
Tibbs nodded curtly, accepting Nash’s explanation. But he remained unsmiling.
“What were you sayin’ about you knowin’ why Hollis and Slocum were headed into the mountains?”
“Yeah. After I nailed Hollis, I went back to take a look at Slocum. I’d winged him days earlier and Hollis had left him in the snow. He tried to nail me and I shot him through the lungs. He took a while to die and asked me to get his watch to his wife and kid in Amarillo, which I aim to do. But I pulled a piece of paper from his pocket when I got the watch and it had ‘Ghost Riders’ written on it …”
Nash broke off abruptly as Tibbs straightened swiftly in his chair at the mention of ‘Ghost Riders’. The agent seemed a little shaken but he tried to cover by an act of indifference. “What’s wrong?” Nash asked.
“Well, it’s like the title of one of them dime novels,” Tibbs answered. He fumbled around with the report papers and the pen and ink. “But it’s a name I’ve heard.”
Nash showed interest.
“Go on.”
“Aw, just a name. Not too long ago. Was in connection with a—train or bank—robbery or somethin’. Not round these parts. Up in the northern Rockies, around Sawmill Bend, if I recollect right. Bunch of riders wearing masks and sheets. Dunno if they called themselves the Ghost Riders or if someone else dubbed ’em that.”
“Well, wearing a sheet over you might be pretty smart at that. It’d hide your clothes clear down to your boots, even the shape of your body. If it was big enough, it’d cover your saddle and some of your hoss, too. Make it kinda hard to give a good description.”
Tibbs agreed.
“Does make sense at that. But what’ve Hollis and Slocum got to do with the Ghost Riders? They only wore kerchiefs over their faces when they hit the agency. No sheets or nothin’ like that.”
“Slocum said they were planning on joining the bunch. I guessed then they must be a wolf pack, but I’d never heard of ’em.”
“Well, that once is the only time I have, too.” Tibbs told him. “Here’s the report. You add whatever you like yourself and sign it. I’ve already signed on the left.”
Nash completed the formalities, got his receipt for the returned money and then stood stiffly.
“I’m headed for a bath and shave and bed. Then it’s back to Denver and some leave—I hope.”
Tibbs stood and came around the desk. He seemed a little awkward as he held out his hand.
“Thanks, Nash. I feel I should’ve gotten that money back by my own efforts, but I guess the main thing is that it’s back.”
Nash gripped briefly with the agent then left the office and slogged his way wearily down the street towards the town’s only hotel.
Denver seemed larger than he remembered it when Clay Nash stepped down from the train at the depot siding. He guessed he had been away for too long and had spent too many hours in small towns and hamlets on the edge of the frontier. That was why Denver looked so big.
He shouldered his warbag and hefted his Winchester, then made his way down from the siding towards Elliott Street. He nodded to several of the railroad men: they knew him well enough from his comings and goings.
Nash had sold the chestnut in Baptism Springs. In fact, Grant Tibbs had bought the animal. He had shrewdly seen that there was a chance for a bargain and he knew that the chestnut must have plenty of stamina and speed for it to have taken Nash over all the miles of country he had travelled in tracking down Hollis and Slocum. Good horses that were fast on the plains and had plenty of muscle power for climbing rugged mountain ranges were hard to come by in remote areas like Baptism Springs. Nash had been satisfied with the price: he could have shipped the horse back with him but owning a horse was really a nuisance in a job such as his.
Hume might send him almost anywhere in the Union and it wasn’t always practicable to ship out a man’s mount with him. It was usually a sight easier and faster to get the man to the trouble spot as quickly as possible by train or stage and, once there, the agent could hire whatever kind of horse he thought he might need. Sometimes there was no need for a mount, the trouble being able to be fixed locally. In any case, Nash, though sorry in a way to part with the chestnut, felt happy enough with the deal.
Though he did wonder at the time what Tibbs would want with a good mountain horse.
Strange man, Grant Tibbs, the big agent thought as he swung out of Elliott into Altitude Plaza and crossed it towards the Wells Fargo building, dodging between wagons and timber-buckers drawn by strings of laboring oxen. There had been some rain recently and the plaza was churned to mud. He made his way around the edges, looking for firm ground, but still managed to cover his boots in muck by the time he could get onto the boardwalk.
Yeah, Grant Tibbs was a tough hombre in his own way, and had had a good enough record with the company. Nash had known him when he’d been a shotgun guard and again when the man had opened up the agency in Baptism Springs. They had never been friends—but they had talked a few times. Tibbs had been ambitious. Getting his own agency at Baptism Springs had pleased him but he had made it plain that it was only going to be a springboard to bigger and better things for him. But the railroad had kicked the supports from under the stage agency and he had become little more than a dispatch, clerk.
He had reason to be bitter, Nash supposed, when he thought about it. But he knew the company wouldn’t leave Tibbs there for any longer than was necessary: they didn’t abandon good men. However, it was plain that Tibbs seemed to figure he had been there much too long ...
Nash put the thoughts from his mind as he got to the Wells Fargo building and entered. After a few minutes he made his way to the second floor and along the passage to Jim Hume’s private office.
It wasn’t large, but it was quiet and the walls were lined with dozens of file drawers, all labeled. Hume could work there undisturbed, if he wished, and he knew exactly where to go to select the file he required. He was a man who liked everything orderly and he reveled in research work and detail. In particular, he loved a challenge, as he had shown in the eight years he had persevered before tracking down and arresting the notorious Black Bart through a laundry mark in San Francisco.
He was a blocky man, giving an impression of brute strength. But there was an inner strength there, too, when a man looked into those candid, level eyes that could be soft and warm in friendship or cold and hard in enmity. He wore a Prince Albert coat and stiff collar with black tie and a small diamond stud holding it flat against the front of his striped shirt. He had a moustache in the style of the day, though, lately, he had taken to waxing the ends. His thinning hair was parted on the left, almost at ear level, and swept across a shiny scalp in pomaded strands, curling up slightly at the right hand side. Mostly, he wore a brown derby hat even if he travelled on assignment with Nash or one of his other operatives. Only rarely did he abandon the hat for the more practical Stetson of the frontier.
Hume glanced up irritably from a mound of papers scattered across his desk as Nash entered. There were other papers piled on the floor by the desk legs, but Nash knew that, though it looked disorderly, Hume would be able to pick up whichever paper he required unhesitatingly. He was wearing a dark green eyeshade and he pushed it up as the big agent removed his hat.
“Ah, Clay.” He sat back in his chair and then stood up, offering a meaty hand to Nash who shook briefly and firmly. “Was hoping you’d turn up within the next day or so.”
His face straightened as he saw the look on Nash’s features. Hume sighed and dropped back into his chair.
“I know, you were figuring you had some leave due, right?”
“Damn right,” Nash said with feeling. “I’ve done eight assignments in a row without any kind of a break and I’m wound up tight as a cottage clock, Jim. You ain’t gonna tell me you’ve got something else you want me to go out on right away, I hope?”
Hume opened his humidor and took out two large cigars. He pierced the ends of both and handed one to Nash. Then he went through an elaborate ritual of lighting both cigars, running the vesta flame over the mouth ends of the rolled tobacco leaves, and warming them to mellow taste. He didn’t look at Nash until the ritual was finished, then he sat back in his chair, puffed a thick cloud of aromatic smoke into the room and peered at the operative with the slightest trace of a smile.
Nash suddenly held up a hand.
“Don’t bother with all the rigmarole, Jim. I’m way ahead of you. There is somethin’ and no one else can handle it except me an’ you’re sorry but you’re short of men and there’s no way around it, it just has to be me.”
Hume stared at him steadily.
“Sorry, Clay.”
“Sorry, hell,” muttered Nash edgily. “Wells Fargo must be in a hell of a bad shape if all the investigators are out on assignments, is all I can say.”
Hume seemed amused.
“Yeah ... Guess we would kind of be going downhill at that.”
Nash frowned. “You tellin’ me I’m right? That there are other investigators available but you’re picking me for whatever chore you’ve got up your sleeve?”
Hume sighed and blew out a long plume of blue smoke.
“It’s kind of big to keep up my sleeve, Clay. Fact, this is the biggest chore that’s ever come my way. Our way. And I need your help. I know you’re plumb tuckered and you want a break and I’d aimed to give you one after the Baptism Springs job was finished.” He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “But I can’t.”
“Why not?” Nash said wearily. “There are plenty of other good men on your staff, Jim. I’ve had it, amigo. I mean it. I’m gettin’ round in a daze half the time. If I ain’t careful, I’m gonna get my head shot off just through bein’ careless, because I’m walkin’ about half asleep.”
“Yeah, I know the danger of that, Clay. Look, this isn’t the usual kind of chore. You’ll be able to stay right here in Denver for a spell and ought to be able to get in at least six hours’ sleep a night.” He paused. “For a couple of weeks anyway,” he added lamely.
Nash frowned, but his voice didn’t sound so angry when he spoke again. “Well, I guess that sounds a little better. But what kind of chore is this?”
“Like I said, not the usual sort.” Hume leaned forward. He placed his elbows on the desk and gazed at the big man across from him. “As you know, they’ve got the federal mint operating in Denver now. They’ve minted the first hundred thousand dollars in gold coins and they’re to be shipped to Washington.”
Clay Nash paused with his cigar halfway to his lips. “The whole hundred thousand?”
Hume nodded.
“All at the one time?”
“I told you this wasn’t the usual sort of chore.”
“You’re serious?”
Hume didn’t even bother to nod his head as he flicked ash off his cigar.
“Washington needs the money for some foreign policy dealings, Clay. They have to have it in a month. We’ve got that long to find a secure way of shipping it from the mint.”
“You mean—Wells Fargo has the contract for getting that amount of gold through, all the way to Washington?” Nash shook his head slowly. “That’s some deal. Why don’t they use the army? A whole damn battalion?”
“We’ll be calling on the army, don’t worry. We’ve got authority from the President to call upon anyone we need to help us. But we’ve got such a fine reputation for getting things through, that we’ve been awarded the contract. No need to tell you that if anything happens to that gold before it reaches Washington, the company’ll have to make good the loss. We’ll be ruined.”
“You need more than just me to help you on this, Jim.”
“Sure—but I need you now, Clay. I’m in the planning stage. I need your brain. Later, I’ll need your brawn, too, most likely, but for now, I want you to check this deal over with me and help me work out a route and a security structure. If you’re feeling as tuckered as you look, I reckon it might be best if you hit the hay for a spell and we’ll get started on this first thing in the morning.”
Nash nodded, standing.
“I reckon that’s a good idea, Jim. It’s sure going to be one hell of a chore.”
“There’s a lot at stake, Clay,” Hume told him soberly. “We can’t miss on this one.”
Clay Nash said nothing as he hefted his gear once more and walked slowly out of the office. He doubted if he would get much sleep with something like this swirling around in his head. But, of course, that was why Jim Hume had told him just enough to get his interest. He knew Nash wouldn’t be able to resist the challenge and, despite himself and his weariness, would start planning right away.
It was why Hume had said they would get started first thing in the morning. He knew Nash would be eager to go, champing at the bit and ready to present his thoughts and ideas.
Although it is doubtful that Jim Hume had heard of the word ‘psychology’, he was probably one of the first to use it.