Wells Fargo had certain jobs that were planned well in advance. Some were regular chores, like shipments of money from certain banks to their head offices, or gold from refining plants and mines. One such job was the movement of money after the cattle sales at Wichita. The cattle agencies combined to have their cash transferred by guarded stage to the head offices of the Cattlemen’s Bank in Dodge City. There was no rail link-up and by Wells Fargo stage was the only way of moving the money, often as much as thirty thousand dollars.
Wells Fargo didn’t, of course, announce when the shipments would be taking place, although most of the company’s employees picked up the shipping date one way or another. As was their way, Wells Fargo didn’t make any obvious and elaborate arrangements. All the stages still carried passengers, but in a big shipment one seat was reserved for a plainclothes Wells Fargo man acting as back-up to the usual shotgun guard. The express box was bolted to the floor and triple-locked. The keys were sent ahead by a special rider.
The stage carrying money from the cattle sales pulled out of Wichita on time, with one of Wells Fargo’s top shotgun guards sitting beside the driver, Ambrose Jameson. The shotgun guard was a scar-faced, granite-eyed man known as “Ace”. The undercover man in the carriage was Wilson Benjamin, a dead shot with a fine record.
The first two days along the trail were without incident and the run began to settle into a boring trip of mile after dusty mile through mainly featureless country. The stage stopped at odd hours of the day and night to change horses and let the passengers and crew eat indifferent meals at remote way-stations. The swaying and jolting over bad roads tended to put the passengers into a kind of hypnotized state. There was a distinct glazing of their eyes as the stage rolled along the winding trail across the flats that led to Anvil Range.
Wilson Benjamin held onto the leather hand strap beside his window seat, letting his thoughts wander. He too was becoming mildly stupefied by the long hard journey. Up top, Ambrose Jameson kept the team going and himself alert by flicking his whip with monotonous regularity. The scar-faced Ace sat nursing his shotgun, a rifle clipped beside his seat, his hard eyes roving well ahead of the stage, taking in the sparse timber and rocky outcrops of the Anvils.
He stiffened when he saw a horseman weaving out of the trees and heading for the trail. Ace figured he would reach the trail at a clump of boulders at about the same time the stage would. He nudged the driver and pointed. Ambrose Jameson frowned, squinting into the sun. Ace rapped on the rooftop with the flat of his hand, soon receiving a few knocks in return that told him Wilson Benjamin was awake and alert.
“That’s a pack mule that hombre’s leadin’,” the driver said. “Likely a prospector.”
“You get ready to push that team if I say so,” Ace growled, keeping his eyes on the rider.
The stage rolled on and the rider leading the pack animal came down the slope, drawing closer. As Ace had predicted, the man drew level with the stage near the boulder clump. Then the rider lifted a hand and startled both men on top by calling Ambrose by name. The driver squinted as he hauled rein.
“By hell—! Larry Holbrook, ain’t it?”
Larry rode forward and grinned through the cloud of dust, nodding to Ace, who also knew him. “Glad to see you fellers,” Larry said. He indicated the Anvils. “Been tryin’ to find Jubal Ricks, but no luck. Ran out of grub and I’m almost out of water. You fellers couldn’t help me, could you?”
“We don’t carry grub,” Ace snapped suspiciously, shotgun at the ready.
“Hell, I know that,” Larry said, still smiling. “I meant water. You got a water barrel in back, ain’t you?”
“Sure, but I dunno if we—” Ambrose started, then he broke off suddenly as there was a heavy gunshot and Ace jerked back, the front of his chest smashed in.
Larry’s hand dipped and came up with a blazing six-gun in it, shooting through the flimsy panels behind the driver. Wilson Benjamin jerked as the bullets punched into him and a woman screamed. Ambrose lifted the reins to slap at the team, but the heavy buffalo gun boomed again from the rocks and the driver was blown clear off the stage. Larry spurred forward and grabbed the harness on the team leaders as they started to lunge away. He held on tightly as Jubal Ricks rode out of the boulder clump, the big Remington smoking, its butt braced on his thigh. Reaching the stage, Ricks leaned down from the saddle and poked the rifle through the carriage window.
“Now let’s not have any heroics, fellers. Just pile out and shuck your valuables and let me get a shot or two at that express box on the floor so everyone’ll walk away from here in one piece.” He glanced at Larry who still held the team leaders and winked. “Told you it’d work like a charm, kid. You did fine.”
“Let’s get it done with,” Larry snapped.
“They were recognized,” growled Jim Hume. “Made no attempt to mask themselves.” He stopped pacing the office floor and looked at trail-dusty Clay Nash who leaned against the wall. “It’s like they want to make sure we know they joined forces, Clay. They’re thumbin’ their noses at Wells Fargo. First the Wichita-Dodge stage with all that cattle money, then the Abilene train and that gold shipment. The damn kid even had the gall to say to one of the train guards that he wanted us to know about it!”
Nash took out tobacco and papers and built a cigarette. “I didn’t really figure the kid’d go this bad, Jim, teamin’ up with Ricks, but that’s how it is. And like you say, it’s not just to get back at the company, it’s to taunt you and me.”
“Well, he’s doin’ a real good job,” Hume said bitterly. “I’ve got more pressure on me from Head Office now than I ever did. They want results, no matter what.”
Nash fired up a match and lit his cigarette. Speaking through smoke, he said, “I missed trackin’ down Ricks around Wichita, obviously because he moved out with Larry before I got there.”
“Yeah, and they’ve been in two wide-apart places since,” said Hume irritably. “We’re not gonna be able to outguess these two, Clay. They’re a deadly combination and it’s anybody’s guess where they’re gonna hit next.”
“I disagree, Jim. I figure we could set things up so we’ll know exactly where they’re gonna hit.”
Hume glanced at the Texan sharply. “They won’t fall for a trap.”
“They will if we bait it right.”
“Judas, Clay, the way things are goin’ the company won’t want to risk any money or gold shipments, not even to trap Ricks and Larry Holbrook.” He shook his head. “Head Office has had enough.”
Clay Nash blew a plume of smoke and looked steadily at the agitated Hume through the haze. “How about we spread word about a big shipment, say of the Governor’s wife’s jewels, going to Santa Fe for an exhibition or something? We’ll use fake jewels, naturally, but only us and the Governor’s wife will know that. Then we can add a special attraction.” He paused and smiled faintly. “You and me.”
Hume stiffened. “What?”
“We’re the ones they hate even more than the company. Ricks has sworn to get me for killin’ his brother and the kid hates my guts and yours, too. Do you reckon they’d be able to resist the chance of makin’ a fortune and nail the pair of us in the bargain?”
Hume didn’t have to think about it long before a slow smile creased his face.
It took a few weeks of careful arrangements and a lot of co-operation from the Wells Fargo office in Santa Fe plus the New Mexican authorities. The Governor’s wife had had her entire jewelry collection duplicated in paste; she had done this years ago on the advice of her insurance company.
New Mexico was in the midst of a celebration commemorating an important event in its history, when the U.S. Cavalry engaged Mexican-Spanish troops at the Mission of Santa Fe in a battle that rivaled the Alamo for savagery, but this time with the Mexican contingent as the beleaguered force. It was the battle that caused the Mexican Army to pull out of New Mexico. The Governor’s grandfather was one of the heroes of that engagement, so the Governor, on the fiftieth anniversary of the fight, had decreed that celebrations be held in his State. It seemed reasonable that the Governor’s wife should let her jewels be displayed at such an occasion, especially as some of the collection had come from deposed Spanish royalty.
Under the circumstances it was only natural that a company with Wells Fargo’s reputation be asked to carry the jewels from Kansas to Santa Fe, and that the company would assign its best men to guard such an important collection.
As Nash had told Hume, the jewels would be too tempting a prize for Ricks and Larry Holbrook to pass up, especially with the bonus of a confrontation with Hume and Nash.
He was right. The plan worked to perfection. The stage wasn’t even out of Kansas when the outlaws struck.
The driver, Whip Nation, of French and Creole extraction, tooled his team expertly through a narrow defile that almost brushed the sides of the stage. Clay Nash rode shotgun. He didn’t think there would be any point in Ricks and Larry trying to stop the stage here for there wouldn’t be enough room to get in to the passenger compartment where the iron-bound express box was bolted to the floor. Still, he was on the alert.
But it didn’t help.
The big Remington rolling-block rifle thundered from above and the left lead horse shuddered in its traces and dropped, blood spurting from its neck where the high-caliber bullet had severed its spine. At the same time there was a crashing rumble from behind and Nash whipped around in time to see several huge boulders thundering down the slope, blocking the defile behind the stage.
Hume and the passengers tried to get out of the coach but the doors wouldn’t open far enough because of the narrow walls of the defile. The Remington boomed again as Nash tried to see the bandits. Whip Nation spun off the stage and fell amongst the flashing hoofs of the terrified team.
“You’re next, Nash, if you don’t throw down that shotgun!”
Nash swore, recognizing Jubal Ricks’ voice. He had no target to shoot at and nowhere to go. He was cold-decked.
Nash got to his feet slowly and lowered the hammers of the Ithaca before dropping the shotgun between the coach and the defile wall. He raised his hands, his gaze raking that slope, looking for a sign of Ricks.
“Hello, Clay,” said a voice behind him, and he felt the stage rock slightly.
Nash turned his head and swore as Larry Holbrook stepped onto the top of the coach from behind a large rock on the defile wall.
“Didn’t expect this, did you, Clay?”
“It ain’t over yet,” Nash gritted out.
Larry smiled thinly and Nash noticed the new hardness in his narrow face. “Ain’t it, Clay? I think it is over. We’re gonna steal them fake jewels. Oh, yeah, we knew the real jewels wouldn’t be shipped out for an exhibition, but that don’t matter. Wells Fargo is gonna suffer just the same from the bad publicity.”
Nash swore, knowing Larry was right.
“The company will look foolish as hell because we outsmarted you,” Larry went on, smirking. “Add to that the loss of their two top men in the bargain ...”He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Poor Wells Fargo.”
“How do you aim to move the stage with a downed horse?” Nash asked deliberately changing the subject.
“You’re gonna help us. You’ll unhitch that dead bronc and lead the others around it. Hume and the passengers’ll throw out their guns first, of course. Then they’ll step down once the stage is clear of the defile.” Larry grinned tightly. “You’ll get to keep your gun for a spell, Clay.”
Nash’s eyes narrowed.
Larry was tense now, his eyes bright with rising excitement. “You punched me up in front of those people at Flagg’s Landin’ because I knew I couldn’t beat you to the draw. But that’s changed now. Jubal’s been teachin’ me. I got a natural talent. You’ll see how good I am, Clay.”
“You’re gonna draw against me?” Nash said, surprised.
“I told you, I got natural talent. Speed, accuracy.” Larry’s voice hardened. “And the need to kill. ’Specially you!”
Nash shook his head slowly, looking at Jubal Ricks who was coming out of the rock clump high on the slope. “He won’t let you take me, Larry. Jubal wants me for himself. I killed his brother and he’s been tryin’ to square that for years.”
Larry’s face was set like rock. “You’re mine, Nash!”
Nash gave him a bleak stare. “Jim Hume was right about you: only a bullet’s gonna stop you.”
“Maybe. But it won’t be yours. Now climb down and let’s get the stage out in the open!”
He lashed out suddenly with the rifle barrel and it took Nash across the face, opening a deep gash in his cheek and sending him staggering. Larry then prodded him in the midriff and Nash fell backward and down to the team. He clawed for support as he slid down between the animals. Getting a grip on harness, he clambered over the horses’ backs, rolled onto the dead animal at the front and shook his head to clear it. Blood dripped from the wound in his cheek. He heard Jubal Ricks laugh above him.
“He’s a mean one, ain’t he, Nash?”
Nash lifted his bloody face and saw Ricks halfway up the slope, the big Remington in his hands.
“Too mean for you, Jubal,” Nash said.
Ricks grinned. “I showed him how to drag iron. You’ll be surprised how fast he is now.”
“He says he’s gonna take me,” Nash said, then added, “and to hell with you and your dead brother.”
He saw Ricks stiffen.
“Guess you taught him a mite too well, Jubal,” Nash said. “He thinks he can take you.”
Ricks glowered at Larry Holbrook. “Nash is mine, kid! He killed my brother. You can have Hume!”
“I want Nash!” Larry cried out. “Ain’t no glory in outdrawin’ an old man like Hume. I want to beat Nash and let the whole damn country know about it!”
“See, Jubal?” Nash taunted. “He’s after the glory! He’s more ornery than either of us figured! And he’s gonna cheat you out of nailin’ me!”
“Like hell!” Jubal Ricks lifted the Remington and Nash knew he was a hair’s breadth away from death. “I swore I’d kill you, Nash, and that’s what I aim to do!”
“Jubal! He’s mine!”
Larry threw aside his rifle and crouched on top of the stage, right hand near his gun butt. Jubal Ricks flicked his gaze at him.
In that instant Nash acted.
His right hand streaked down and up and there was a six-gun in his fist that bucked as he fired off three fast shots. Jubal Ricks jerked and twitched as he staggered back, the massive Remington booming, then jumping out of his hands from the recoil. Before the outlaw’s body folded and rolled down the slope, Nash spun around to face Larry Holbrook. Their six-guns blasted together.
Nash twisted and fell to one knee as lead burned across his right shoulder. He grasped his smoking gun with his left hand and blasted another shot at the staggering Larry. Larry threw up his arms, dropping his gun. He crashed face-first against the rock wall and then fell near the horses. Larry was barely alive when Nash got to him. He stared up at Nash through incredulous eyes.
“No one’s ... that ... fast,” he gasped, then he slumped forward, dead.
Nash stood up slowly, holstering his gun as Hume demanded to know what was happening.
“It’s already happened, Jim,” Nash said quietly. “The kid’s dead. The only way to stop him was with a bullet.”