Swallowing the piece of half-cooked buffalo steak he had taken from the point of Skillet’s hunting knife, Nash wiped the back of a hand across his mouth.
“I’m looking for a buff-hunter name of Hunnicutt.”
Skillet paused with a huge piece of meat halfway in his mouth, his eyes narrowing. “Hunnicutt? Jeff Hunnicutt?”
“That’s the man. Know him?”
Skillet rammed the meat in his mouth and began to chew, shrugging. “Worked for me a few times as a shooter, once or twice as a skinner. Heard tell that sometimes he works at more’n buffler-runnin’. Ain’t seen him lately, though.” He carved more steak and tossed a piece to Nash who caught it and then yelled, juggling the sizzling meat from one hand to the other as Skillet went on. “Jeff likes to stay close to the north bank of the Red so he can slip across into the Territory when strangers come askin’ for him.”
“Friend of his in Amarillo recommended I look him up,” Nash said.
Skillet’s thick eyebrows arched. “You dunno Jeff then?”
Nash shook his head. “Never saw him. This mutual acquaintance mentioned him. I—er—got reasons for wantin’ to take a close look at the Territory, too.” He gestured across the river, now indistinct in the dusk.
Skillet grunted. “Who was the mutual acquaintance?”
Nash hesitated. “Buck Tanner.”
Skillet didn’t look at him but Nash thought the man’s dirty knuckles whitened as he sawed away at the chunk of spitted meat.
“You know Tanner?” Nash asked, trying to sound casual.
“Heard of him,” Skillet said. He chewed before adding, “nothin’ good.”
Nash nodded. “Tanner was no good at all.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead. They blame me.”
“’Course it was some other feller who just happens to look like you,” Skillet said.
“He didn’t look in the least like me. Feller by the name of Brazos Lane. Used a shotgun. He was aimin’ at me at the time.”
Skillet cleaned the blade of the knife across his buckskin-clad thighs and returned it to his sheath. He wiped his greasy beard on the end of the vest and scratched at his nose. “You’re soundin’ more and more interestin’, feller. This Brazos Lane is well-known in this neck of the woods. Used to do some bounty huntin’ up this way.” He squinted across the fire, looking expectantly at Nash.
The Wells Fargo agent returned the buffalo man’s stare levelly. “I savvied that a man could ride up here and no one would want to know about his backtrail.”
Skillet nodded slowly. “You’re right, friend. You got a name?”
“Clay Nash.” McAllister had put his correct name on the wanted dodgers and Nash saw no reason to change it.
Skillet seemed to be thinking for a long minute, then he looked up, shaking his head slowly. “Can’t recall you, amigo, and I’ve seen a whole slew of wanted dodgers. None lately, though. We don’t get too many up here unless some lawman’s loco enough to ride in and start nailin’ ’em to trees. Only one was stupid enough to try puttin’ up dodgers in town. They found him three miles downstream with a wagon wheel tied round his neck. We make our own law here.”
“Sounds like my kind of place,” Nash grinned.
Skillet studied Nash soberly. “You want work, you look me up. My camp’s at the north-west end of Dead Men’s Walk. If you can shoot, I’ll put you on hunter’s pay and a share. If you can’t measure up, mebbe you can skin or scrape or throw some muscle onto the presses.”
Nash stood, thrusting out his hand to Skillet. “Thanks. I might look you up. But I still have to find Hunnicutt.”
Skillet rose and hitched up his trousers. He seemed completely unaffected by the jug of whiskey he had drunk as he rested a hand on Nash’s shoulder. “Amigo, you know the Lucky Strike Livery stables in town here?”
Nash nodded. “Got my horse stalled there.”
“Makes it easy then. You ask the hostler about Hunnicutt. He’s Jeff’s brother.”
“Hell, I already asked him and he told me to try The Cave.”
Skillet grinned crookedly. “If you walked in here without a buffler man with you, you’d have gone for a swim. Maybe you wouldn’t’ve surfaced till your carcass was washed into the shallows. Too many men here can’t take chances on strangers askin’ after ’em.”
“Guess I was lucky then.”
“You was. When you ask the hostler this time, you’ll have to back up the question. Whether you use a gun or gold is up to you. Savvy? But watch Lew Hunnicutt. He’s an ornery cuss who just might shove a pitchfork in your face.”
“I’ll watch it. Thanks, Skillet. Maybe I’ll see you out on the Red.”
“Mebbe.”
Skillet turned and ambled back to the bar as Nash left The Cave and walked back along the dark riverbank towards the bright lights and raucousness of Wichita Falls.
The sour man with the rake wasn’t in sight when Nash entered the livery. Two lanterns burning on the rear wall threw just enough light to show the way down the aisle.
“You there, Hunnicutt? Lew?” Nash called, hand on his gun butt.
“Lew ain’t, but I am.”
Nash whirled. His Colt whispered out of leather but a pickaxe handle slammed across the back of his head and another knocked the Colt from his hand. He staggered and fell to one knee, reaching out to steady himself against a stall post. Someone kicked his hand free and he fell. A boot drove into his side and another skidded off his head. Stars exploded in his brain and he was only semi-conscious when hands gripped his arms and jerked him to his feet.
He felt the warmth of a bull’s-eye lantern and smelled the hot kerosene, then the lantern cover was pushed back and the spot shone into his pain-twisted face. A hand knocked his hat off. Fingers entwined in his hair and jerked his head up.
Squinting against the light, Nash saw that the man holding the bull’s-eye lantern was a taller, younger version of the livery man.
“I’m Jeff Hunnicutt. Heard you was askin’ for me.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Nash gasped, still held tightly by Hunnicutt’s unseen friends. He saw Lew Hunnicutt come out of the darkened office to light more lanterns in the aisle.
“Take him out back or you’ll drive my customers away,” the livery man complained.
Jeff Hunnicutt nodded and Nash was half-dragged down the aisle and into the darkness of the yard near the corrals where he was slammed heavily against a feed shed.
“Who are you and where’d you get my name?” Hunnicutt demanded. To back up his words he drove a fist into Nash’s midriff.
Doubled over as far as the two men holding him would allow, Nash said, “My handle is Clay Nash. Buck Tanner told me to look you up.”
“He’s the one who killed Buck, Jeff,” one of the men growled. “Lucky’s got a wanted dodger with this hombre’s face and name on it. He killed Buck and also three soldiers down Lubbock way.”
“I didn’t kill Tanner,” Nash denied.
Hunnicutt backhanded him across the face. “’Course you didn’t. None of us did. Or robbed banks or held up stages or did none of them naughty things the law blames us for. We’re all as innocent as babes.”
The two men laughed and then Hunnicutt slammed Nash’s head violently back against the shed wall.
“It don’t matter whether you did or didn’t do what the wanted dodgers say, Nash. Now, why’d you want me?”
“Buck thought you might hide me out.”
Jeff Hunnicutt spat. “Hogwash. Tanner didn’t know me that well. And I figure you didn’t know him that well. You know what I figure, Nash? I figure you’re still workin’ for Wells Fargo and tryin’ to trace them guns.”
Nash’s eyes narrowed. “I never mentioned any guns.”
Hunnicutt hit him in the ribs, hard, bringing a gasp from Nash. “You got me tagged for a fool? Mister, I make it my business to keep up-to-date on wanted dodgers and all strangers who hit this neck of the woods. I have to if I want to stay alive. I know you worked for Wells Fargo as Hume’s top gun, and you was investigatin’ some guns stolen from a way station at Pueblo River.”
“Tanner said you were in on that,” Nash said, hoping to get a reaction out of Hunnicutt.
But the man merely stared back soberly. “Tanner always had a big mouth. Just as well somebody killed him.” He suddenly planted his boots wide and ripped three solid blows into Nash’s ribs. As Nash started to jack-knife the men holding him slammed him back against the shed and Hunnicutt smashed him in the face with left and right hooks, then he shifted his attack to Nash’s stomach.
Panting and sweating, Hunnicutt finally nodded to his friends and they released Nash. He dropped to his knees, bleeding and gasping for breath. Hunnicutt kicked him in the ribs and Nash rolled onto his side, knees drawn up to his chest.
“Now tell me about Wells Fargo, you sidewinder!” Hunnicutt roared. “Talk or I’ll stomp your gun hand to pulp!”
Nash raised his blood-streaked face to look up at Hunnicutt through a red haze. “Wells Fargo wasn’t supposed to investigate that raid. It was strictly federal. We were warned off ... but the tower guard was a pard of mine and I—I started checkin’ round anyway. Then I ran foul of McAllister. Three of his dogs came after me and I nailed ’em. He got riled ... put out a dodger on me. When Tanner was killed—accidentally by Brazos Lane—I was there and McAllister hung that on me too.”
Hunnicutt stared silently down at Nash for a spell, then he looked at his men. “What do you think?”
“Sounds like it might be truth, Jeff,” the first man said. He had only one ear, a mass of twisted scar tissue showing where the other had been. He was called Foxy.
The second man was short, broad and hairy. He was known as Bull, which seemed appropriate enough. He looked from Nash to Hunnicutt, scrubbing a hand over his jowls.
“Got to admit it’s got a kind of gospel ring to it, Jeff. I don’t think someone like McAllister would stand for a hombre like Nash here interferin’. Yeah, I’d be inclined to go along with him.”
Hunnicutt grunted and turned to Foxy. “Go fetch that wanted dodger from Lucky. He’s watchin’ the mounts down at the end of the alley.”
Nash was still on the ground, barely moving, when Foxy came back with a crumpled handbill. Bull held the lantern while Jeff spread the paper out and read it through, checking the hand drawn likeness on the dodger against Nash’s face.
“Him all right,” he muttered.
“It’s Nash right enough,” Bull said. “Saw him gun down Streak Dawson and Injun Joe Cash in Laredo a few years back. It was after they held up a Wells Fargo stage near Brownsville. Hardly had time to bury the loot before Nash showed up and buried them.”
Hunnicutt continued to study Nash, still holding the dodger. He looked back at the paper and held it out towards Bull, pointing to something, then he showed the same thing to Foxy.
Nash knew what it was, and he cursed Josh McAllister for rigging the reward money the way he had on the dodger. It was too big a temptation for bounty hunters—or men like Hunnicutt.
“Kind of risky, Jeff,” Foxy said.
“Hell, no. We leave him with Lew and Lew sends for the law, collects the reward and we come back for our share long after the law’s gone and taken Nash off.”
“I reckon it’d be safer to put a bullet through him now and just settle for the five hundred,” Bull said.
“Like hell!” Hunnicutt said. “McAllister wants him alive so’s he can put him on trial, make a big show, grab some glory. We’d be loco not to grab that big reward while we got him.”
With that Nash’s fate was decided. He was tied to a corral post. Jeff Hunnicutt squatted in front of him and slapped him lightly with the folded reward dodger across the face.
“You can finance us for a spell, Nash. But tell me, are you still after them guns or what?”
“Like hell I am!” Nash growled. “Wells Fargo dropped me like a hot potato and McAllister outlawed me. All I want is a safe place to hide. I figured you might help me.”
Hunnicutt laughed as he stood up. “You got some gall! But no matter. Lew’ll send for the law and they’ll string you up. You won’t have no more worries then.”
He laughed and Foxy grinned, but Bull’s expression didn’t change.
Hunnicutt looked at the squat man. “You stay here with Lew and keep an eye on Nash. You can fade as soon as you get word that the law’s headed in.”
Bull nodded. “Where’ll you be?”
“Out in buffalo land. Skillet’ll be headed back soon. I’ll do some huntin’ for him for a spell till I hear from you. Then we’ll collect the reward, cross the Red and live it up around Shiloh. I hear them renegade women are really somethin’.”
Nash pricked up his ears at the name “Shiloh”. It didn’t mean anything to him then, but he knew they weren’t referring to the famous Civil War battlefield far to the east. Maybe it would mean something to him later.
If he lived long enough.
Nash knew there was no use fooling himself: he was going to have to break loose before Lew Hunnicutt could get the law to Wichita Falls or the whole deal would be shot. The best thing to do was escape now, before the law arrived. That way it would look like the act of a desperate man trying to stay clear of the hangman’s rope.
But breaking free was easier said than done. The ropes that held him to the post had been wrapped tightly around his chest, and his wrists were tied as well as his ankles. He could barely move.
Horses in the corrals moved close by, a couple coming close enough so that he felt the hair on their fetlocks as their hoofs brushed past his hands. He was afraid they would stomp on his hands accidentally, and it wasn’t a pleasant thought.
Bull had gone inside the livery and was drinking whiskey and playing two-handed stud with Lew Hunnicutt in the small office. Every once in a while Bull looked out to make sure Nash was still there, but only once did he walk out to test the ropes.
Nash knew it wouldn’t take long for a lawman to get to Wichita Falls from Seymour. By sundown tomorrow at the latest, he figured. So he would have to be a long way from Wichita Falls by then.
Which meant he needed a miracle.
“Well, looks like they got you all trussed-up like a Thanksgivin’ turkey, amigo! You must’ve let your guard down after me tellin’ you not to.”
Nash almost cricked his neck as he turned his head to see the man who spoke out of the darkness near the feed shed.
“Skillet?” he said huskily. “That you?”
“Sure as hell is, amigo,” the big buffalo man said, stepping out of the shadows. He was still carrying his Sharps, and the iron skillet dangled from its rawhide thong, clanging softly as he walked forward. “So you let ’em jump you, huh?”
“Better keep your voice down,” Nash warned. “Bull’s been left to watch me and Lew Hunnicutt’s inside—”
“No they ain’t. Here they come now,” Skillet said, turning casually as the two men came rushing out, apparently having heard the big buffalo hunter’s arrival. Bull had a shotgun in his hands and Lew held a pitchfork.
He lifted the heavy Sharps, thumbed back the hammer as Bull brought up the shotgun, then he pulled trigger. The thunder of the massive weapon was like a dynamite explosion in the confined space. The impact lifted Bull into the air and sent him back to land in a flailing, bloody heap fifteen feet away.
Lew hesitated, then lunged at Skillet with the pitchfork. Skillet swung the smoking rifle around, knocked the fork aside, and brought his heavy iron pan down solidly on Lew’s head. The stableman collapsed, unconscious.
The buffalo hunter put down the Sharps and effortlessly lifted the corral post out of the ground.
“Now let’s get you untied and head out to the clean air of buffler territory, huh? It seems a lot healthier than the air in town.”