The old prospector was loco, but there was a lot of sanity still in him, too, and Nash didn’t doubt him for a second.
Fish might be obsessed with finding a gold bonanza but he had filled in too many details for him to be lying about the man who had appeared on foot and taken the satchels from the front of the wrecked stagecoach. In any case, he had absolutely nothing to gain by lying.
Fifty thousand dollars in cash wouldn’t have much interest for an old sourdough like Fish. He had only one vision, only one thing meant riches to him: gold. But likely he wasn’t even after riches. His kind often only wanted the thrill of the chase after the gold and, once they had won it from the earth, they oftentimes didn’t know what to do with it. Or didn’t care what happened to it. It was why prospectors usually cut loose when they hit town in a wild spree: not so much as a release from all the hard months or years out in the wilderness, but as a quick way of getting rid of their gold so that they would have an excuse to go back and look for more.
Gold fever was simply that: a ‘fever’, just like an illness, and the cure could only be temporary in many cases. Fish was one of these ...
So Nash knew that, if Fish had gone down there and found the fifty thousand dollars, he likely would have left it there, maybe taken sufficient to outfit himself with some new tools or grub, but that was all. The color of treasure was golden, as far as Fish was concerned, not the green ink of Capitol-printed paper money bills.
“Sounds like Ralls rolled into that river when he jumped out of the coach or fell, or whatever,” Nash told the others. “He likely got carried a ways downstream with the current and, by the time he’d pulled himself out onto the banks again, it was all over. Or maybe he got out of the river right off, but laid low until Dooley and his bunch left.”
“But how did he know there was money hidden under the driver’s seat?” asked Cassidy puzzledly. “I was the guard and I never knew. Loco Larrabee the driver didn’t know about it ... How come Ralls did? And he must’ve, ’cause Fish said he went straight to it.”
“That’s right, son, he did,” confirmed the old prospector, sipping from the cup of coffee that Aggie had brewed. “Stepped over all you fellers lyin’ about without a glance. He only had one thing on his mind, that hombre, and that was them satchels.”
“So he must’veknown about the money in advance!” Aggie said, looking straight at Nash.
The Wells Fargo man nodded. “Sure seems that way. How he found out is another matter. But it looks like you’re in the clear, Matt.”
“Looks like it!” echoed Aggie. “Surely there’s no doubt now that he’s innocent, Nash?”
Clay Nash smiled slowly. “Not in your mind, I guess, ma’am. Nor in mine, to be honest. But Jim Hume’s a thorough man, and I figure he’ll reserve judgment until he nails Ralls or his accomplices.”
Aggie’s eyes flashed. “Ridiculous!”
Cassidy took one of her hands in his good one and squeezed. “It’s fair enough, Aggie. But I feel way better about it now. Hume can’t ignore this evidence. He’ll have to withdraw the charges against me.”
“I’ll see to that,” Nash promised. He glanced at the old prospector. “You write, old-timer?”
Fish shook his head. “Can’t read, neither. Leastways, not much. Few words. Why?”
Nash shrugged. “Thought I might get your statement in writing. I figure you won’t want a whole heap of folk crowdin’ up here to ask you a lot of questions.”
Fish straightened, wincing as his wound hurt. “By hell I don’t! I’ll blow that tunnel closed forever, you bring a bunch of townsfolk out here!”
“Take it easy. I won’t. Your secret’s safe with us, Fish.”
The old prospector flicked his gaze to all three of them, one at a time, studying each carefully before moving on. He sipped his coffee.
“Long time since I’ve had any real contact with folks,” he said, speaking into the tin cup, his coarse voice echoing a little. “Been talkin’ to the burros and the squirrels and the ground-hogs for years now. But I used to be able to pick whether folks was good or bad. I reckon you’re all right. I trust you.”
“I hope you find your bonanza, Mr. Fish,” said Aggie, smiling.
“Will one day. If I live long enough.” He grinned toothlessly at the looks on their faces. “Don’t ask me what I’ll do with it when I do ...”
“You’ll live out the rest of your life in ease, of course,” Aggie said. “It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
Fish cackled. “Prospectors ain’t noted for their good sense, ma’am. But tell you what I’ll do: you leave me your address. If ever I do strike it rich, I’ll take out a little for my needs, whatever they might be at the time, and I’ll send you word and that husky young husband of yours can come on up and dig out what he wants.”
Nash saw the flare of real hope in the girl’s eyes for a moment, and then it dulled as good sense set in and she smiled and thanked Fish, knowing full well they would never hear from this old fossicker. Still, there was always hope, vague though it may be ...
He wouldn’t come down from his ledge, but he showed Nash where he had seen Ralls go into the rocks with the satchels. He swore no one had been back since to collect them, at least, not during daylight hours.
Fish shook hands all round, accepted some food and ammunition, but refused to come down to Spanish Creek for proper medical attention. He went back into his tunnel and Nash set the rock in place.
“D’you think he’ll be all right?” Aggie asked with concern.
Nash shrugged. “Fellers like Fish are mighty tough. But, if things go against him, he wouldn’t want to end his days in some doctor’s infirmary. He’d rather die trying to swing a pickaxe into the spot he believes his bonanza to be. Now let’s see if we can find these satchels of money ...”
They moved down from the ledge and walked their horses into the area where the prospector had seen Ralls disappear.
“One other thing, Nash,” Aggie said, frowning. “Where has Ralls been all this time? In fact, where is he right now?”
“I don’t know the answer to either question,” Nash admitted. “But I’m beginning to think I just might know how to find out.”
The Cassidys looked at him expectantly but he said no more and began to scout around amongst the rocks to see if he could locate the hidden satchels of money.
It looked like being a near-impossible task, for there were rocks of all sizes scattered clear across this section of the slope and there must have been at least a hundred places where the money could be hidden; so it seemed to Nash.
The more he saw of this deal, the more he realized that it had all been carefully planned. This was no spur-of-the-moment theft, Ralls finding the money by accident, then just stumbling across this area where it would take a whole army of men a month to locate the hiding place.
This had been planned down to the last detail and Nash was slowly beginning to gather up the loose ends. But he knew he was a long way yet from finding the complete answer.
By sundown they had found nothing. They made camp close in to the base of Hangman’s Spur, and Nash was quiet as they ate the evening meal.
“What’s the next move?” Aggie asked, ever-ready for action that would help clear Matt’s name.
Nash set down his plate, wiped a hand across his lips. He looked straight at the girl, flicked his gaze to Cassidy.
“I want you two to head back to Spanish Creek come sunup.”
“What!” the girl echoed.
Cassidy sat up straight, grabbing at his slung arm, wincing a little.
“Go back to Jim Hume. Wouldn’t be surprised if you run into him at the head of a posse on its way out here. Tell him what’s happened. If you want, I’ll write it out so you’ll have something to back you up.”
Aggie started to speak again, but Cassidy put a hand to her forearm, stopping her. “And what d’you aim to do?”
“Well, that money’s been cached, and I’m betting it hasn’t yet been collected. The posse and Jim Hume and I have been nosin’ around out here, the clean-up crew’ve been in to salvage what they could from the stage wreck. My notion is, if Ralls is somewhere about, he hasn’t yet had a clear chance at slipping back to collect that money.”
“I see. You’re gonna stick around and jump him, is that it?”
Nash smiled slowly. “Not exactly. He might be willing to let things set for quite a spell. I could grow old and gray waitin’ for him to show.”
The girl frowned. “Then what’re you going to do?”
“I’m aimin’ to goose him some. Get him a’runnin’ for that cache so’s he can get his hands on it, pronto, before Wells Fargo pick it up again.”
“How the hell ...?” asked Cassidy, bewildered.
Nash merely smiled, then started to build a cigarette.
“If you’ll dig up some paper and a pencil, I’ll write it all out for Jim Hume so you don’t have any trouble. Just make sure he keeps the posse well away from here.”
That was all Nash would say, despite their hammering him with questions while he wrote out his report for Jim Hume. When he had finished, he rolled up in his blankets, saying that he aimed to get an early start in the morning.
He didn’t say where he aimed to go.
The rented house was near the northern outskirts of Sesame Ridge, a weathered clapboard place with only two glass windows in the whole building. The others were shuttered, and they were propped open on wooden braces now, as Clay Nash walked up the path in the heat of mid-afternoon.
It was Sunday and he was taking a chance that the man he wanted to see would be at home. He rapped on the door and a frail-looking child about seven or eight opened it. Nash smiled as he leaned down, doffing his hat to her.
“Afternoon, young lady. Your pa at home?”
“I’ll see, sir,” the little girl piped. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Clay Nash.”
Less than a minute later, a worried-looking Cutler came bustling down the short hallway, the child behind him standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, pointing.
“This is most unexpected, Mr. Nash,” the clerk said, a shade nervously. He was wearing a damp flour sack apron on which he was wiping his hands. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing thin white arms. “Please, come in, sir.”
Nash stepped inside and Cutler closed the door after him.
“You must forgive me, Mr. Nash. As I believe I told you once before, I have an ailing wife and ... well, I believe it is my duty to help all I can, so this afternoon, as on most Sunday afternoons, I am doing the household washing. Please—in here.”
The clerk led Nash into a dingy parlor that smelled musty. The drapes were old and faded, one pair so worn they were practically transparent. He refused Cutler’s offer to sit down and the clerk frowned at him, puzzled.
“I won’t stay. ’Fact is, I’d rather not be seen here at your house. Not for my own sake, but for yours.” Nash paused, looking steadily at the uncomfortable man. “It’s even possible you have some inkling as to why I’m here, I think.”
Cutler sighed, nodding slowly. “Yes, of course I have, Mr. Nash. It’s to do with the cash shipment, that fifty thousand dollars, unless I miss my guess.”
“You don’t miss your guess, Mr. Cutler.”
“I thought so. As soon as Mandy told me your name, I knew.” He gave Nash a half-smile. “Did you know that Mr. Jarvess has left the Company, handed in his notice soon after his—er—altercation with you.”
Nash raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know. But I guess it was a convenient enough time for him to resign.”
“Yes, sir, I fear it was.” Cutler looked levelly at Nash. “Will I be in much trouble, Mr. Nash?”
“You’re not in any trouble,” Nash told him quietly. “Rest easy on that score. I know anything you did you were forced into.”
Cutler looked as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He groped for the arm of a chair.
“If you don’t, mind, Mr. Nash, I rather think I’d like to sit down.”
“Go ahead. Then tell me about it. But, before you do, can you still get in touch with Jarvess?”
Cutler seemed surprised at the question, but nodded slowly.
“Yes, sir, he’s still in town, intending, I believe, to pick up the Phoenix stage tomorrow morning.”
Nash smiled in satisfaction and sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair.
“Then I came just in time, it seems.”
How long was it going to take? Nash asked himself as he wiped sweat from his gaunt face, sitting in the shade cast by the big boulder near the base of Hangman’s Spur.
He had waited out here all yesterday and now most of today. Still there was no sign of Ralls coming to collect his cache of stolen money. For the first time, Nash began to wonder if his plan was going to work. He knew his theory was correct; Cutler, the brow-beaten clerk, had confirmed that part, all right.
But, theory was one thing. Proof, it was another. Which, after all, was why he was here right now.
He had to take Ralls red-handed picking up the stolen money. For more reasons than one, too. It seemed that Ralls was the only one who knew where the money was hidden ...
Nash was running low on grub. It was his own fault. He should have replenished his supplies when in Sesame Ridge, but hadn’t wanted to be seen around town and had cleared it as soon as he finished speaking with Cutler. Also, he hadn’t anticipated such a long wait. He thought he might have goosed Ralls out of hiding right away.
For a moment he wrestled with a worrying thought; suppose Ralls had come out and collected that money while he had been up in Sesame Ridge? The man would have had time enough to do it ...
He shook the thought from him. It wasn’t likely. Sure, he had to admit there was a possibility it could have happened, but it still wasn’t very likely. They had played it smart all down the line, so there was no reason to think they would panic at this stage.
Nash only hoped his subterfuge would be enough to set things in motion ...
The afternoon went and faded into sundown and then into another night, and he made yet another cold camp. He didn’t aim to give away his position at this stage.
By midnight, he was asleep, leaning against the boulder, his blankets draped round his shoulders and bent knees. His six-gun was resting in his lap. His horse grazed and dozed alternately, trailing its reins. Night sounds echoed around the Spur.
Nash’s head fell forward and he jarred his forehead against his knees. This half-woke him. It was the sound of the horse coming through the pass below and to his left that woke him up all the way.
For a moment, he didn’t move. He sat where he was, staring down at the moonlight-washed ground between his feet: the moon had risen since he dozed off. His senses sharpened and he heard the slight clunk of a horse’s hoofs again. His hand grasped the butt of the Colt in his lap and his other arm began to lift the blanket away from his body.
He crawled forward to the edge and looked down. At first he didn’t see anything moving in the pass, and then there was a kind of rippling in the shadows, perhaps a hundred feet to his left. He watched there, eyes straining to pick out the darker shape moving against those shadows. Yes, it was a horseman, riding very slowly, staying in close to the wall of the pass, where the shadows were.
Nash smiled faintly in satisfaction. At last, he was getting results.
The rider had stopped now. Probably he was taking his bearings, making sure it was safe to venture out through this end of the pass, which led to the rock-studded area where the old sourdough prospector had seen Ralls take the satchels of money.
The Wells Fargo man had his thumb hooked in the curl of the hammer spur. He eased it back to half-cock, not moving another muscle now, waiting patiently ...
Minutes passed. Then there was movement below and the rider walked his mount out into the full moonlight for the first time.
Nash sucked down a sharp breath.
It wasn’t Ralls.
It was Lang Jarvess.
In his shock Nash moved more than he meant to. His hand, on the very edge, slipped and set a small landslide in motion.
Instantly, Jarvess jumped his mount around and his Colt came up in his right hand, spitting flame and smoke. The bullet, a lucky shot, or by design, Nash wasn’t sure, hit the rim right in front of his face and stone chips stung his face, momentarily blinding him.
He clawed at his eyes, rolling instinctively to get away from the second shot he knew must come, but rolled the wrong way and went over the edge. His body skidded and slewed and somersaulted down the steep slope and he felt the rocks banging against his ribs and legs and body. Dust rose in a choking cloud. He had only one thought uppermost in his mind: to hold onto his six-gun at all costs.
Nash’s body skidded to the bottom of the slope and he was dazed, semi-conscious as the dust cleared and he pushed to hands and knees. He swore. Despite his efforts, he had dropped his Colt. He saw the moonlight glinting off the metal of the weapon where it rested against a rock eight feet away.
He jumped as a bullet smashed into the ground between his spread hands. His head jerked up and he looked at Lang Jarvess, sitting his horse only a couple of yards away, covering him with a cocked and smoking Colt.
“Goddamn you, Clay! I figured you’d be long gone!”
Nash gave him a crooked smile, careful not to move from his kneeling position. “Figured that’s what you’d figure. But I was expectin’ Ralls.”
Jarvess’ teeth flashed as he grinned. “He won’t be comin’.”
“No, ’course not. I see that now. Should’ve seen it before. He ain’t been seen since he stashed the money because he’s dead. You killed him, I guess, for a bigger share. Or so you didn’t have to share at all.”
Jarvess’ face was highlighted by the moon. Nash saw his mouth curl.
“Yeah. He’s dead. But I didn’t kill him.” He laughed briefly as he saw the disbelief on Nash’s face. “Gospel, Clay. He killed himself. How? Outsmarted himself, that’s how. When he hid that money, he stashed it in a nest of rattlers. He hid out in the gulches and canyons of the Spur, waiting for you and the posse and the salvage crews to clear off. He was s’posed to let me know then, when it was all clear. But he figured to collect the money himself. Was gonna bring it in to me, he said.” He shrugged. “Might’ve been true. Don’t matter now. He got bit by one of the snakes and had to leave the cash stashed. Panicked, ran to me. By that time the poison’d gone right through him. He died just after he told me the exact position of the cash. I dropped his body down one of the wild canyons back in the hills. Don’t much matter whether he’s found or not now.” He paused briefly, sobering. “I’ll likely do the same with your body, afterwards.”
“You’re sick, Lang, you know that?” Nash said suddenly, and tensed, as the Colt came down and drew bead on him. He held his breath, then let it out slowly between clenched teeth when the shot did not come.
“Sick of bein’ treated like a fool,” Jarvess said quietly, bitterly. “Not good enough for executive material, not good enough as a husband ... Yeah, Clay, I’m sick of all them things and more!”
“I know, Lang,” Nash said, not unsympathetically. “I finally figured it out, from the way you act so persecuted, how you bully the hell out of your staff, especially Cutler ...”
“Ah, yes, poor old Cutler!” sneered Jarvess. “I see now. You used him to get me to ride into this trap, didn’t you? He, as chief clerk, was left in charge of the depot after I quit. So I didn’t doubt him when he came to me and said, out of past loyalty, he felt I should know he had received a message from you saying that I had come under strong suspicion as being implicated in the robbery. He felt he ‘owed’ it to me to warn me, so that I could get away.” He laughed bitterly. “You damn well knew I’d run for the money, didn’t you, Clay?”
“Well, I was expecting Ralls. Figured you’d get him to collect it. That was before I knew he was dead, of course ... You’ve been on a good thing for a while, haven’t you, Lang? Working in with Moss Dooley, arranging to tell him when a stage worth robbing was due to move out of your depot.”
Jarvess scowled. “The Company treated me like dirt. I figured it was only right I should make ’em pay! Yeah, I worked in with Dooley’s bunch. Tipped him off.”
“But this time you only had Cutler tip him off about Case Ritchie carrying the money belt, didn’t you?” Nash asked. “You didn’t tell him about the fifty thousand in the secret compartment. That was for you. But you needed someone riding that stage who could get their hands on it and hide it after Dooley had left. Ralls. Guess he was an old pard of yours. It hardly matters now. The point was, he was to jump from the stage before it crashed, and you knew it would, for the driver and guard were to be killed. Driverless, it had to crash sooner or later. Ralls was to lie low and, after Dooley vamoosed, he was to grab the money, stash it, and then disappear until things cooled down.”
“Damn you, Clay! You always were smarter than me! Always toppin’ me in everythin’! But not this time, you son of a bitch!”
He triggered, but Nash was already moving, hurling himself bodily through the air, right hand clawed and reaching desperately for his six-gun lying in the dust.
Jarvess fired again and jammed his heels into his horse’s flanks, leaping it forward, trying to ram it into Nash.
The Wells Fargo man got his hands around the butt of the Colt, rolled onto his back and lifted one arm up instinctively as the horse leapt over him. He spun out from under the hoofs, rose to one knee and, as Jarvess hipped in leather, chopped at the hammer spur with the edge of his left hand.
The gun bucked and roared as he fanned off three swift shots, the gun barrel riding upwards with the jolting and recoil. Hit twice, Jarvess pitched from his mount, losing the grip of his gun. The weapon skittered towards Nash, who gathered it up and rammed it into his waistband as he lurched to his feet. Grim-faced, he trudged to where Jarvess lay bleeding from his wounds. Jarvess’ left arm was creased from Nash’s first bullet. The second had missed. The third was in his chest.
“Oh, hell—Clay ...!”
“Stay quiet.” Nash inspected the chest-wound, winced, then declared, “I’ll be taking you back to town. Getting my slug out of you is a chore for a doctor. But, first, the satchels?”
“No—use to me—now ...” panted Jarvess. “I sure—loused up—everything—didn’t I ...?”
“Tell me where, Lang.”
“Back of a rock ...”
“Lang, they’re all alike! One rock looks the same as another!”
“Ralls said—a scarred rock. Half-moon—scar. Said I—couldn’t miss it.” As Nash made to move off, Jarvess clutched at him weakly. “Clay! Let me—finish it! I’m beggin’ you! My gun—let me have it ...!”
“You know I’d never do that,” muttered Nash. I’ll be taking you back. There’s a good doctor in town, and he’ll ...”
“Yeah—sure …” groaned Jarvess. “He’ll get me—healthy—healthy enough—for my day in court.”
“I’m sorry,” said Nash. “But that’s the way it has to be.”
He rose and hurried to the rocks. Aided by moonlight and scratching one match after another, he began his search. How long would this take? How much time did Jarvess have? He was running out of patience when he scratched his seventh match.
And there it was. A rock showing a scar in the shape of a half-moon. By some stroke of good fortune all the rattlers had gone. One by one, he lifted the satchels from their hiding place.
“All here, Lang,” he called. “We can be on our way now.”
The bark of the gunshot caused him to jerk convulsively. He whirled, emptying his holster. Then, shoulders sagging, he moved across to the sprawled body. Lang Jarvess had ended it, had taken his own life. His plea for his Colt had fooled Nash, who hadn’t counted on a pocket-pistol, hadn’t thought to check him for a concealed weapon. The Smith & Wesson with the cut-down barrel was still held to Jarvess’ bloody and blackened right temple.
“All right, Lang, all right,” he said softly. “You had to do it your way.”
Late afternoon of the following day, Clay Nash sat slumped on a sidewalk bench, one ear cocked to Jim Hume’s muttered discourse. Hume paced back and forth in front of him, doing his talking around a tight-gripped cigar.
“It’s all squared away, Clay. The recovered fifty thousand is in safe hands. And those cattlemen, Tallon, Breck and Parsons, are happy as a tinhorn sitting behind a straight flush. Successful completion of your assignment, Clay. You pulled Wells Fargo out of one helluva fix this time. So don’t be surprised if there’s a fat bonus in your next pay package.”
“Cassidy and his wife?” frowned Nash.
“I’ll make it up to ’em,” Hume promised. “They’ll be fine from here on. Count on that.” He moved close to the bench and dropped a hand to Nash’s shoulder. “This was a rough one for you. Jarvess turned bad. And he was an old buddy of yours. I guess it’s not much consolation, huh? In the end, it wasn’t your bullet killed him.”
“You’re right,” Nash said tight-lipped. “Not much consolation.”
“Flop for a week, get drunk, get it all out of your system,” advised Hume. “You’ve sure earned a break.” As he turned away, he added off-handedly: “You’ll be hearing from me—when needs be.”
“Sure, Jim,” nodded Nash. “’Be seein’ you.”
Left alone, he slumped a little lower, crossed his legs and dug out his makings. As he rolled a cigarette, he brooded. Assignment successfully completed. He had done well, living up to his reputation as a top trouble-shooter for the Company. Hard work and dirty, but a job that had to be done. So now he could relax.
Until the next assignment ...